


The most epic bedtime story ever told

by ThatOtherGirl13



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Families of Choice, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Whump, Pre-Canon, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, That Time In Malta, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 69,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOtherGirl13/pseuds/ThatOtherGirl13
Summary: To satisfy Nile’s curiosity and make her part of the family, Joe tells her the full story of how Nicolò di Genova and Yusuf Al-Kaysani became "NickyandJoe". From Jerusalem to Malta and back again. And Nile doesn’t want the PG version.It’s a story that has been told in this fandom a thousand times before, but deserves to be told a thousand times more.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 264
Kudos: 972





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this story a shot, I hope you will enjoy! I'm so grateful Netflix has spread this beautiful lovestory between two queer characters for us to draw inspiration from. I've been reading wonderful stories in this fandom and wanted to add my own take on their history. 
> 
> Some things to note:  
> \- Story includes a rape-warning but it's a small part of a very long story and only the aftermath of it is discribed, not the act itself.  
> \- Story will mostly be taking place in the past, but we are also spending time in the present for some found-family-fun.  
> \- Story is strictly movie canon compliant. I have not read the comics. If it's not addressed in the movie, then it's not established and is fair game.  
> \- Google Translate and Wikipedia fill in the (big) gaps of my knowledge with regards to languages, history, geography, and religion. It's fanfiction, not a history lesson (stay in school, kids).

**2020**

Joe turned in his seat to check on Nicky and Nile, but didn’t spare Booker a single glance. Nile’s face was so new to him, he couldn’t read her but when she caught him looking, she offered him a smile. It was exactly what Nicky would do and Joe knew he’d like her. 

His Nicky looked distant and it took the man a while to resurface from his thoughts and meet Joe’s eyes.

Joe mouthed: You ok?

Nicky answered with a curt nod and a twitch of his lips, as much of a smile as he could manage.

Nicky’s face was not new to Joe. He’d spent almost a millennium admiring it. He could tell his love was lying to him for his sake. No, for everybody’s sake. Nicky did that, he took care of people. Joe knew it was the reason why he had seated himself between Nile and Booker, when Yusuf had expected him to take a seat behind the wheel of the car – next to him. He was typically the one to drive their getaway car.

Nicky hadn’t trusted Booker to share the backseat with Nile and Andy, both vulnerable in their own way. So instead of being the designated driver he became the designated buffer. The boss drove and Nicky sat between the traitor and the newbie, his right shoulder pulled up, his body slightly leaning towards the young woman, trying to avoid touching Booker. Joe could imagine a touch would make his skin crawl. Booker’s betrayal was a more intimate hurt than they had suffered in a long time.

In an attempt to provide some comfort, Joe reached his hand back and folded it over Nicky’s knee. He gave it a squeeze.

They had a safe house in London, but they couldn’t risk going there. Booker had ratted out their Charlie safe house in Goussainville to Copley. They could ask him how many other safe houses he had blown, but they couldn’t trust his answers. But Joe trusted Andy to have a plan in spite of everything and she did not disappoint.

She drove the car to a small shopping center in the outskirts of the city. In the parked car she used a bottle of water that had been left in the cup holder to clean the blood off her face. With her jacket zipped up, she looked more presentable than the rest of them. All except Booker, but they couldn’t let the traitor out of their sight. Joe, Nicky, and Nile had been riddled with bullets, their clothes showing the evidence of that. On top of that, the back of Nicky’s head was a mess, his hair darkened with blood and matted with gore.

Andy was gone for less than ten minutes and returned with hoodies for all of them, so they could cover themselves up, as well as two suitcases and a simple first aid kit. They left the car in the underground parking garage of a train station and Andy bought five tickets to Bristol, making sure to be captured on the security camera as she did, but not on her way back out.

The five of them walked a few blocks, passing several hotels before going into the lobby of one. They didn’t look too out of place idling while Andy got them three rooms, holding onto the suitcases and picking tourist folders out of the display on the wall.

They all piled into the elevator and then they all piled into just one of the three rooms. They would stay together, because it was safer.

Joe watched Nicky shake off his hoodie and look at himself in the mirror over the vanity that doubled as a desk.

“You can shower first,” Andy said and if she hadn’t offered, Joe would have insisted. But of course she offered. “Nile can redo my stitches in the meantime.”

The former Marine frowned. “What makes you think I’m qualified to stitch you up? Just because until recently my wounds did not magically heal, doesn’t mean I have any experience with sutures other than getting nauseous at the sight of them.”

“I’ll stitch you up,” Joe placated, before Nicky would offer to do it. Nicky needed to take care of himself first for once – he needed to wash up. Joe knew how to suture a wound, although it wasn’t something he had to do since the Cuban Revolution when he stitched up the soldiers unfortunate enough to not ‘heal magically’. “But I’d rather…” He motioned at Nicky who stood in the doorway to the bathroom.

“It’s fine, Joe. One of us needs to keep an eye on Booker anyway.”

Booker flinched where he sat in the chair by the window, looking more broken and distraught than he ever had before.

Nicky was right. If Booker was hell-bent on trying something, Nile wouldn’t be able to stop him. She was too new and inexperienced to take on someone with two hundred years of close combat training.

“Ok, you shower, my love.”

Nicky closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it. They never did.

Andy lay back on one of the two queen-sized beds and peeled the red bandage off her skin. During the fight she had torn her fresh sutures. The wound had opened up and was bleeding. Joe kneeled by her side and lay out the supplies from the first aid kit on the mattress. He had everything he needed, but the gunshot wound was bleeding profusely and the kit didn’t contain a lot of bandages to stop it.

Andy groaned and threw her head back on the pillow. She was the only one who could look Booker in the face and talk to him. She asked him to raid the mini fridge for her. “And don’t you dare give me a chocolate bar. I need booze.”

Within a few seconds Booker handed her a miniature bottle of vodka.

“You know, those little things are terribly overpriced, you’re gonna regret it,” Nile said to keep the atmosphere light.

Andy just grinned. She raised her head up, unscrewed the cap and drank like it was water.

In the meantime she was already bleeding through the wad of sterile bandages Joe pressed to her abdomen. 

“Nile, boil some water using the tea kettle,” He instructed. “And get a towel from the bathroom while you’re in there.”

She grabbed the electric kettle and was across the room in three strides, but she paused in front of the door. “Uhh…”

“It’s ok,” He assured her. The water was running in the shower, so Nicky would be standing under the spray, behind a shower curtain. Besides, he knew his lover to not have any shame about nudity, the way people from the twenty-first century had. Honestly, in this life they led – that Nile was now a part of – there was little time and space for privacy anyway and the young American might as well get used to it.

“If you say so.”

Joe lifted the bandages just enough to inspect the wound. Behind him, he heard Nile open the bathroom door.

“Oh, Nicky,” She let out in a gasp that made Joe’s back stiffen. “Joe? Joe! Nicky is sick.”

 _They didn’t get sick_.

Andy’s hand replaced his on the bundle of bandages, applying pressure herself. “Go.”

He scrambled up to his feet.

Nile had backed out of the doorway, uselessly holding the tea kettle and looking down. Joe stormed over.

Nicky was on his knees on the floor, hunched over the toilet bowl, still fully dressed. The running shower had been to cover up his sounds. He made a gagging noise and vomited up some bile. There was nothing in his stomach to throw up, they hadn’t eaten since before they had been captured.

“Darling.” He sunk down to his knees beside him and put his hands on his back. “Shhh… I got you.” He dropped his head down into the crook of Nicky’s neck. He didn’t care that he reeked of blood, sweat, throw-up, and traces of tear gas. The man’s body shook as he gasped for breaths between sobs.

Andy called out Nile’s name and it startled her out of a trance. She went to close the door, but Joe stopped her.

“No, Nile, get what you need. Sterilize a towel with boiled water and apply pressure until I can help, ok?”

She awkwardly stepped over their legs in the cramped space of the bathroom and filled up the kettle and grabbed a towel, all the while Joe whispered reassurances in Nicky’s ear in Italian. Nile didn’t bother or didn’t think to turn off the shower. She left them alone, closing the door behind her.

Joe slipped one hand down, smoothing it over Nicky’s stomach, feeling him quake as he continued to gag. Joe cried into his shirt, understanding his lover’s pain. When he had stopped gagging and was only left trembling, Joe eased him back until he sat on the floor with his back to the wall. He pulled up his knees against his chest. Joe flushed the toilet and got up only long enough to wet a towel before lowering himself down at Nicky’s side. He wiped his mouth clean with one end of the towel and the rest of his face with the other. Then he tossed it aside and wrapped him up in his arms.

“ … He put the gun in my _mouth_.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

Nicky titled his head back, looking up at the ceiling for only a second before squeezing his eyes shut. He forced himself to take a deep breath and released it with a shudder.

“That’s it. There you go. Just breathe.” He splayed his hand over Nicky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat, waiting for it to settle down.

“I felt it against the back of my throat before he-…” His face twisted in pain.

“I killed him, Nicky. I killed him for it.” He knew his love didn’t have a vengeful streak, but he hoped knowing Keane was dead would make him feel safer.

The man dropped his head down. He mumbled, needlessly apologetic: “I don’t know why I still get like this. It’s been almost 900 years…” He sighed as if exhausted with himself. “I thought I was doing okay but when we got in the room and the adrenaline left-… I’m sorry.”

“Nicolò, don’t apologize.”

“You should be taking care of Andy.”

“I’m taking care of you. That’s what I should do.”

“Booker can’t know I’m weak.”

He squeezed him tighter. “You are not weak.”

The man released a sigh and got up from the floor, using the wall behind him as support.

Joe stared up at him. He didn’t know where Nicky found the strength, he himself was too weighted down to get back up. He grabbed the hand that hung at Nicky’s side. “You are the strongest man I know.” Nicky’s free hand brushed through Joe’s curls.

The Italian pointedly looked at himself in the mirror. “I need a shower. And you need to stitch up Andy before she does it herself and makes a mess.”

With a pull Joe was helped up from the floor. He cupped his hands against Nicky’s jaw reverently. “First, I’m going to help you clean up.”

“Joe-“

“ _Nicky_.” He touched their foreheads together and he tried a smirk for him. “Surely you know me better than to argue with me about this.”

* * *

**One month later**

“Why are you laughing?” Nile’s voice went up, as did her eyebrows.

Joe knew him better. This wasn’t Nicky’s laugh. If Nicky was laughing, everyone would be laughing with thim, he had that effect. He was barely chuckling now. But it was the most exuberant Nile had ever seen the man in the short time the four of them had spent together. Joe’s dark eyes followed the man, still dutifully shuttling empty plates from the table to the kitchen sink. It was a relief to see a smile grace his lips. Joe treasured the sight. Everything about Nicky he had committed to memory but he resented the idea of memories of happiness being all he’d have left.

Andy was the one who actually burst out laughing, unable to contain herself any longer. It wasn’t even that funny, but she needed the laugh and she embraced it. Mortality suited her ill, she didn’t have the patience for it. She didn’t have the patience for herself. Waiting for the gunshot wound to heal after their narrow escape from Merrick’s lab. Waiting for the bruises to heal after a training session that had gotten too intense. She never gave herself enough time, so a grimace had become permanently etched on her face.

Nile’s eyes lit up. Even though she was the butt of the joke, it was clear she, too, welcomed the moment of levity. “What are you laughing at me for? Like I said something stupid. I’m just saying what Joe told me.”

Nicky leaned back, hands clasping the edge of the counter of either side of his hips. “Joe is a flatterer.”

Joe grinned and held his lover’s gaze.

The new recruit cocked her head. “Why do I get the sense that is _your flattering way_ of calling him a liar?”

Joe guffawed and clapped his hand on her shoulder before shooting a look at Andy. “See? She is a fast learner after all.”

“Not fast enough to catch your bullshit.” Andy hid her wince as she leaned forward in her seat to grab her glass of wine and gulp down the last of it. “Knew I shouldn’t have left you in charge of going over old missions with her. You’ve been filling her head with nonsense.”

“I may have embellished a little,” Joe admitted with a shrug and then offered his Nicky a wink.

“Ok, so…” Nile paused to sort through her thoughts and get back to the misunderstanding – or lie, rather – that had started it all. “You were not a knight?” She looked at Nicky for a truthful answer, now knowing Joe could not be trusted with facts.

“No.”

Andy’s body was shaking with suppressed laughter as she poured herself another glass. When she spilled, Nicky steadied the bottle for her, although did not take it from her, preserving her pride.

Nile smacked Joe against his bicep. “Then why did you say that?”

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. He looked up at his love, at his attentive eyes focused on Andy. Joe followed the line of his sinewy arm down to the bottle of red wine. He let her pour her glass half full before angling the bottle up, halting the stream, with a slight shift of his finger. Nicky had this way with Andy that made her less argumentative than she was with anybody else.

“Because I have wandered the earth longer than any man alive today has,” a truth, albeit a technicality, he was only three years Nicky’s senior, “and I have never met a more noble man; a man more deserving of the honor of knighthood. History is riddled with mistakes and I seek to correct them whenever I can. If one day our story should become one of the past, to be recounted by people other than ourselves, I wish for Nicolò di Genova to be remembered a knight.”

Nile was getting all dreamy-eyed, unaware of the smirk tugging at Nicky’s lips and the way Andy was rolling her eyes.

The recently mortal warrior took a big swig of her glass and then said: “Oh just cut the crap already, Joe. You _got_ him. He’s yours. He will share your bed tonight no matter what you say, so just fess the fuck up.”

The youngest of the four looked completely disillusioned.

When Joe was too busy laughing, Andy spilt the truth for him: “The reason he wants Nicky to be remembered as a knight is because Joe – _Yusuf Al-Kaysani_ \- doesn’t want to be remembered as having been slain by a priest.”

“Multiple times,” Nicky chimed in.

“I killed you more often than you killed me!” He shot back in self-defense, but as soon as his words registered and the accompanying memories caught up with him he shrank in his seat.

“Honestly, how can you hold on to your ego for almost a thousand years?” Nile teased him, prodding her elbow between his ribs, not having caught the shift in atmosphere.

He ignored her and begged Nicky with pained voice, a pain that was quickly soothed by the calm waves of the Mediterranean sea in captured in Nicky’s eyes. “Forgive me, tesoro mio, I should not boast about something that is no source of pride to me. It brings me shame only to have stolen life from you.”

“You have stolen nothing. You have _given_ me life.” Nicky’s words were resolute.

“Guys, come on, fuck, we were all _joking_. Give it a rest.” Andy threw her gaze at Nile. “Seriously I have suffered the company of the likes of Shakespeare, Lord Byron - Hell even Casanova – but even those guys didn’t romanticize in daily dialogue as much as these two.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Nile said.

“I think it’s obnoxious,” Andy countered, but without malice and she failed to raise her glass of wine to her lips in time to hide her smile. “Give it a century or so. You’ll be about as enamored by these displays as Book and I.” The smile turned into a grimace as she realized what she had just said. “Ah dammit, now I’ve fucked it up.”

An uncomfortable silence reigned. This was more like what the past month had been like and Joe didn’t revel in it. But he knew things were not easy or quick to change. So much had happened to burden them. As far as eventful periods in their long lives went, this one ranked high. A newly immortal Nile. A newly mortal Andy. The betrayal of a once trusted comrade. The reminder that Quynh was still out there. Them being subjected to torturous experimentation. His love being violated by a gun in his mouth. Having to put their trust in Copley as the web of the modern world tightened around them.

The quiet was broken by Nicky starting to clean the dishes. Joe rose to his feet instantly. He tried with a light tone: “You cooked, you shouldn’t have to clean.” But any attempt at persuasion he knew to be futile, so when he was more or less ignored, he took the dishtowel off Nicky’s shoulder and dried the dishes Nicky washed.

Joe was a little surprised when Nile appeared at his side to grab and put away each plate, fork, knife, spoon, and pan as soon as he was done with it. He exchanged a smile with her as he handed her one thing after another.

Encouraged by the wordless comradery, Nile braved to ask: “So, not that I didn’t enjoy the ‘embellished’ stories, but do you guys mind telling me the real story? Of how you two met? Of how you two became ‘ _you two’_?”

The request brought an earnest smile to Joe’s lips. It endeared him that she wanted to get to know them better; understand them better. Booker – as much as they had been brothers – never really bothered, the weight of his own long life was too much already, without adding on top of it a past that wasn’t even his.

“It’s a long story,” He warned.

She flashed a smirk. “We’ve got time.”

“I don’t,” Andy said, meaning it as nothing more than a crude joke. “Give her the PG-version, will you? I’m going to bed.” She hoisted herself out of her seat and limped out of the kitchen, her body still sore after a day of teaching Nile Krav Maga.

“Please don’t give me the PG-version,” She begged like the child she was. Then she scrunched up her face. “I mean, like, don’t censor the gore and stuff. I don’t need the spank bank version.”

Joe looked at her quizzically and then shot a look over his shoulder to check with Nicky if perhaps he had misheard, but his love looked equally confused.

Nile blinked. “Spank bank?” She waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind. Just tell the story but think more action slash horror, less porn. Wait, you know what porn is, right?”

“Of course.” Joe let out a laugh.

“Well, _excuse me_ , mister Twenty-first-century.”

“The concept of pornography is older than I am! Not that I’ve ever needed it though,” He said smugly. “I have millions of vivid memories to draw inspiration from.”

Nile sighed. “And that would be a spank bank.” Having put away the last of the pots and pans, she lowered herself back down in her seat at the kitchen table.

“Oh, Nile, how you enrich our world.” He turned to Nicky and drawled: “Our ‘spank bank’ is legendary.” The small smile he managed to invoke sent a pleasant tingle down his spine. He wiped his hands dry with the dishtowel and then gave it to Nicky to do the same.

He motioned for Nile to join them in the small living room instead, where she claimed the big arm chair like she always did, draping herself sideways across it. Joe sat on the end of the couch, closest to her and Nicky took his spot right where he belonged, pressed up against Joe’s side. The Arab warrior had his arm draped over the back of the couch, but as soon as Nicky tucked himself into his armpit, he brought his arm down to encircle the man. “Do you want to tell the story?” Joe asked with his eyes trained on Nicky, even though he knew the answer.

“You are much better with words.”

“Hm. And you’ll probably hurt yourself with how much you gesticulate as you speak.” It was cute though and Joe had to confess he had sort of started to mimic the habit after a couple of centuries spent together.

Nile seemed almost giddy and wiggled her feet. “I feel like I am about to be told the most epic bedtime story ever.”

Joe pressed his mouth into a taut line and redirected his gaze to her. “I must warn you, without ‘embellishments’, this bedtime story might give you nightmares.” Then he looked at Nicky again, swimming in the pools of his eyes. “It still gives us nightmares.”

Nile knew about their nightmares. They all knew about each other’s nightmares. The four of them had shared a bedroom in the first safe house where they sought refuge after escaping the terror that had brought the five of them together and then reduced them back to four. The difference was, Joe knew why Nile woke up with a jolt and cold sweat – haunted by flashes of Quynh. Nile did not know the details of why Joe shuddered and wept into the nape of Nicky’s hair, or why his love would sometimes wake up gagging on something that wasn’t there, scraping nails over his body to chase away a phantom pain that crawled under his skin.

She nodded with apologetic eyes.

He started solemnly: “921 Years ago, we were not Nicky and Joe. We were halves of the same soul living as incomplete individuals.

“He was Nicolò di Genova. Not a knight but traveling in the shadow of knights as the disowned son of a Genoese blacksmith turned to priesthood. When the Pope called upon Christian men to reclaim the Holy Land in exchange for absolution, he joined the army, tasked with the care of the knights’ armor and weaponry and to build siege weapons from the timber of the ships that had brought them from across the sea to Jerusalem.

“I was Yusuf Al-Kaysani. I lived a mercenary’s existence throughout the Fatimid caliphate – an empire that stretched the North African coast from Morocco to Egypt. When the Christian invasion began, I lent my scimitar to my faith without pay and fought the infidels for three years before joining the relief army that marched to Jerusalem to aid its defense.

At this time, we were both still mortal men. That changed when we met.”

* * *

**1099**

Yusuf walked on men, not on solid ground. The outer wall of the city had crumbled and the Christian army washed through the inner rampart like a white water river, drowning out cries for help and screams of pain with their victorious roar.

They were too late. They had spent the afternoon fighting the white barbarians at the Southern wall when word reached them that the Northern wall had been breached. Yusuf and two dozen more warriors of the Islamic faith captured frightened horses by their reigns and circled around the city. They wouldn’t believe it until they would see it with their own eyes.

The horror that blanketed the land was not much different from the South, but there the battle still raged, here the war had quieted to whimpers and distant despair. The horses refused to go on, rearing up on their hind legs and managing to throw some of the younger riders in their nervous bid to get away from the stench of death. Yusuf dismounted and started through the field of bodies.

Christians and Muslims lay side by side, closer than they ever were and ever should have been. Close and intimate in death, like brothers, like lovers even. Draped over each other, barely distinguishable from one another.

In the silence he heard the buzzing of flies, the screeching of vultures overhead, and the whip-like cracks of bolts of white fabric with red crosses, flying on top of the walls of the holy city. The brashness of flying your flag on a city that had not yet fully yielded was as Christian to Yusuf as their every other expression of arrogance. But their confidence would not be struck down. Not today. Not here.

Hopelessly defeated, he halted amidst the carnage and was left behind by his fellow Fatimid soldiers, who charged through the gaping hole in Jerusalem’s outer defense, chasing after the invaders.

Yusuf knew he should chase them too, chase them to his death but for a moment, the first moment in years, he felt all strength leave his body. Perhaps he, too, had been arrogant, because this had not been the end to this day he had expected, nor the end to his life.

This had not been the vision in his mind when he rode here from Cairo, exhausting a good horse that was not spared by the pale soldiers. He did not count on Allah to let this happen and it plagued him that he wouldn’t live long enough to understand why Allah did. Why Allah bent the knee to the false and hateful God of the crusaders. To what greater purpose had the city been sacrificed?

The warrior started towards the wound in the wall, determined to collect more of the pale man’s blood on his scimitar before he himself would fall like Jerusalem, but stepping on the armor of a Christian knight, he faltered and squinted at the trembling air over the red mass. His eyes did not deceive him, a man moved.

With effort visible and visceral from a hundred yards away, a man pushed himself up and out of the mass, open grave. He paused on all fours, like a dog, with his head hanging and his fine hair falling down in front of his face. _Fine hair_ , not one of Yusuf’s people. Then he rose to his feet, dragging up with him a sword that caught the rays of the setting sun and blinded Yusuf from afar.

He stared at him, but was too far removed to see any more than the shape of him, yet he knew the man was staring back. Unsure, he observed as the soldier limped through the mass. Then he raised the hilt of his sword above his head, blade pointing down, and with a grunt that echoed towards Yusuf, he pierced a body at his feet.

 _The pale beast is killing survivors_ , Yusuf thought and with renewed rage and resolution he sprinted towards him, while the man continued to search the ground. Before Yusuf could reach him, he knelt briefly by a soldier – Muslim or Christian, Yusuf could not tell – then reared up and hacked his sword down, stabbing the man. 

Only a few steps removed from him, Yusuf slowed to a halt. The man had his back towards him and it would be dishonorable to strike him down like this. Yusuf was not dishonorable and he refused to let Christians lead him down that path that they blazoned, so eager to get to their own reproach.

“Face me, infidel,” He ordered in Arabic. He knew the man would not speak his tongue, but he was resolved for Arabic words to be the last words the man would hear, even though Yusuf spoke many languages thanks to years of traveling.

The soldier drew up his sword – not has high as he should. He was either too exhausted or too incompetent to properly wield his impressive weapon. Or both. Yusuf knew the Christians to not have much stamina and not much skill. Especially the first waves of crusaders to crash on the holy shores were nothing but farmers and crafters.

The man was tall, not unlike Yusuf. The man was slender, very unlike Yusuf. He wore very little armor under a tunic that was once white. A crimson ink blot had swallowed the cross, leaving it near to unrecognizable but still the sight set Yusuf alight with a righteous rage. Most of the blood that stained him appeared to not be his. His clothes were untorn, he appeared unharmed aside from a wound on the back of his head that spilled fresh blood and that had him knocked out for a while.

When he turned, his face was not pale. His complexion was a dark red, save for two streaks of white skin, from his light eyes down his cheeks, to a jawline that was too pronounced due to malnutrition. Tears had washed down his face, but nothing could truly wash away the uncleanliness of a crusader. 

When their eyes locked, a fury awaked in Yusuf’s opponent and the man wrung his hands on the hilt of his heavy sword.

“You have come here in search of your God,” Yusuf spat. “I will bring you to him.” 

The soldier didn’t understand the sing-song syllables of Arabic. He didn’t attempt to say anything in return. He growled like the animal he was and he charged forward, swinging his long sword once the distance was closed.

Yusuf’s scimitar met the blade of the crusader’s longsword with a clang and the force vibrated throughout his arms, but it was more so the weight of the steel coming down than any power in his enemy’s strike. He disengaged and nimbly stepped over a fallen soldier, wary not to lose his footing as it would be the only way he would fall to the inexperienced fighter before him. The bright eyes followed him as he danced around the man. The longsword had the advantage of being about a foot longer than his scimitar, which, for the moment, kept Yusuf at bay.

The man swung the sword around himself, cutting audibly through the air, followed by his pained groan as his entire body protested wielding the heavy weapon.

Yusuf leapt forward and took a jab, but the crusader was surprisingly swift and struck the blade of the scimitar down. Then he lashed his sword out at Yusuf and the tip scraped the intricate armor that protected Yusuf’s chest. He felt the force of the blow and knew it would leave a bruise, but there was not enough force to the swing to do any real damage.

The crusader stumbled backward, tripping over a leg, and was only able to stop himself from falling by digging his sword into the sand and using it as a crutch to keep himself propped upright.

Yusuf thought to himself that he could have killed the invader then, but there was an arrow-riddled body between them that he didn’t risk jumping over. He stepped around the slain man and his enemy righted himself and brought his sword back up. Without much strategy, the conqueror moved forward, flinging the sword left and right, crying out as if in physical pain. But this man did not understand pain. Not yet.

And maybe no man ever truly did until they would smell the charred flesh of innocent villagers, burned alive by the Christian pillagers. This is a pain Yusuf had known many times over.

Blind with anger, Yusuf lunged forward and he winced when he felt the bite of steel in his thigh before he brought his own blade down and buried into the shoulder of the man, just to the right of the column of his neck. His blade bypassed the armor and cut through leather, skin, flesh and muscle and cracked his collar bone, where the scimitar got lodged.

The man sank to knees in front of Yusuf. A humiliating death for any Christian; knelt in front of a Muslim, like they knelt for their Lord. Yusuf would have loved nothing more than to cut his head clean off his body, but his weapon was stuck. He wrapped both hands around the hilt and kicked the man back against his chest, creating a hollow sound against his chest plate. The blade came loose and the man fell backwards and out of the focus of Yusuf’s vision.

He blinked, but the image before him only blurred further. He should have felt invigorated by his victory, but instead he felt weaker than he ever had before. He doubled over, not even having the strength left to stand upright and proud. He could see then that the left pant leg of his trousers was wet and a dark red, unlike the other which was brown and dusty. The fabric was torn midway up his inner thigh and while the wound appeared minor, it bled obscenely and he felt his own blood flood his boot.

With a grunt he let himself fall forward, next to the man that was sputtering up blood as he fought and failed to breathe. The scimitar had cut so deep it had cut into his lung.

How undignified, Yusuf thought as he resigned to his fate. It was not dying he opposed to. It was dying next to _him_. It was offensive to him that their bodies would be found next to each other. They were so close their shoulders were touching and if he could have willed his body to roll away he would have done so. But he had no time nor strength left to do so. His hot anger vacated his body and a cold settled in its stead. He turned his hazy gaze to the sunset, just beyond the man to his right. He meant to look at the sun one last time, but instead he was drawn to the bright eyes, a color somewhere perfectly midway between blue, grey, and green, staring at him.

And as his vision darkened, the bright eyes dulled.

He dreamt of two women. Their faces nothing more than flashes. One woman was pale, like the barbarian he had been fighting. The other women was from the Orient, he had met some of her people before, during his travels. He didn’t know what it meant that he was seeing them, but it was over too quickly to linger on any questions.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark, but in the moonlight he could see the face before him. The big, bright eyes were dull and vacant, but they had never held much more than the mere soul of a Christian anyway.

Yusuf turned his head to look up at the stars. He was still cold and his body was shivering, but his vision was no longer blurry and there was no pain in his leg where the steel of the longsword had seared through his flesh.

He studied the stars the way he first did when he was a young boy, following the pointed finger of his father as the man explained to him how to find the direction of Mecca, right before the dawn, and then they performed Salat al-fajr together. After his father passed, Yusuf prayed with his brothers and after Yusuf had left his hometown, he prayed with his brothers in arms. He had last prayed Salat al-zuhr before riding the final distance to battle at Jerusalem.

The people of the city were still screaming. Yusuf smelled ash. A billowing, black cloud obstructed part of the heavens.

Why wasn’t he dead yet? He longed for it now. He wished to no longer listen to the anguish. He wished to no longer smell the rotting corpses around him. He was so done with this war. He was done with it the day it started. His people had not asked for this. The pale invaders had stepped onto their land uninvited, they had brought the war to peaceful regions. Not just unapologetically, but as if they were even justified to do so. Then they dared to call the Muslims they slaughtered the barbarians.

His body tensed at a soft groan to his right. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement and when he looked over he saw that the crusader with the bright eyes had turned his head, to look up at the stars just like Yusuf had. Although he doubted the man had any understanding of the stars and the moon beyond how they were lights to help him see in the dark.

Why is _he_ not dead yet? Yusuf wondered. He remembered the wound he had inflicted. Deep and grotesque. What kind of despicable work did the white man’s god perform here? Yusuf scrambled up to his feet, snagging his scimitar as he got up. Behind him he heard the crusader get up as well and heard the drag of sword, steel through sand. When he turned around, the man was standing on unsteady legs, his sword down at his side. His eyes were wide, catching the moonlight, making them glow. There was a cut in his garments, an indentation in the top rim of his breast plate and blood still fresh enough to shimmer, but there was no wound. No sign of where Yusuf’s scimitar had cut into him.

The man rolled his left shoulder when he should not have been able to do so after Yusuf had sliced through muscles, tendons and even bone and organs. It shocked them both.

“What are you?” The question was accusatory. Yusuf didn’t need an answer. Didn’t want an answer. He stepped forward, frantically swinging his sword, motivated more by fear than anything else. The blade hit the breast plate, it bounced off the steel but left a satisfying rip in the man’s cross-emblazoned tunic.

The beast managed to thwart the next strike with his sword and forced the ends of both blades down to the ground, but Yusuf maneuvered his scimitar out from under the longsword and with an elegant swoop he aimed the tip back up to the stars.

The stranger let go of his sword and clutched both hands around his own throat, but blood flowed between his fingers from the deep, diagonal gash from his right shoulder to the left side of his jaw. For the second time, the man fell before Yusuf. He gurgled and thrashed his legs as he choked on his own blood. Yusuf stood over him, watching the ordeal and once more watched the life leave his eyes.

His body was trembling, although he was no longer cold.

Did he dream their earlier fight?

He cast his gaze down at himself. It was hard to see, so he patted a hand down his leg. His heart skipped a beat when he found the cut in his trousers where he remembered. Not a dream, he concluded. But there was no matching cut in his skin. He scraped his short fingernails through the hairs on his thigh. The nails didn’t even catch on a scar. There was nothing there.

Confused and nauseated, he was too preoccupied to notice the movement at his feet. Then, in a flurry, there was a shadow in front of him and a pain in his gut. He staggered back and his hands grasped at the hilt of a dagger buried in his abdomen, fitted in between the interwoven pieces of leather and metal that made up his armor. Blood flowed freely from the wound. When he looked up, his enemy stood before him. Yusuf didn’t mean to, but as his knees buckled under him, his hands sought purchase and twisted into the tunic of the man, but he couldn’t hold himself upright. His fingers went lax and he fell to the man’s feet with a shame that hurt more than being gutted.

He grunted when the man pulled the dagger from his body and he lay gasping. The pain in his stomach built and built until suddenly it was gone and only the memory of it remained. Not taking the time to marvel, he reached out with the speed of a viper and grabbed the man’s ankles. He pulled his feet out from under him and he fell backwards onto the armor of a fellow crusader. Yusuf crawled on top of him and the man sliced at him but his armor was well-suited at protecting him from slicing movements.

Not until he clenched his fingers around the man’s throat, noticing how there was nothing left of the wound he had inflicted earlier, did the beast think to stab at him with the dagger once more. Fueled by the panic that Yusuf saw in his eyes. Several times, the armor stopped the tip, but then, with enough force, it pierced through again, this time in Yusuf’s side, between his ribs.

Instead of taking the dagger out, the man was twisting it inside of him, causing Yusuf to shriek with pain. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to choke the life out of him in time, he grabbed a discarded helmet and struck the crusader’s head. Once. Twice.

He went still.

Yusuf collapsed on top of him. He pulled out the dagger and as the wound mended itself, he pushed himself upright. With the blade that was dripping with his own blood, he cut the leather straps of the crusader’s armor and rid him of the breast plate and protective shoulder pieces that hadn’t even served him well, and then stabbed at his chest repeatedly as he watched the broken and concaved skull of the man reshape itself.

He couldn’t count how often he had stabbed him, but his arm turned heavy as lead and he could continue no more. The man came alive again under him with a gasp and it scared Yusuf enough that he crawled away from him and to his scimitar.

Their swords clashed again.

And again.

And again.

It could have been eternity. It could have been minutes. It could have been no time at all. Yusuf didn’t know until the sky turned orange above him and he realized they had fought through the entire night.

It was dawn. It was time to pray. Instead he was fighting some Christian demon. But if the man was a demon, what did that make Yusuf, as they shared this terrible curse?

He stood over the slender body, waiting for him to take his first breath again. Yusuf had cut his throat so deeply he had nearly decapitated him and the thought had occurred to him to try and finish the job, hacking until the head was severed from the body but something withheld him from doing that.

After hours of battle, the double layers of tunics the man wore were nothing more than shredded cloth. There was little left of the sleeves of Yusuf’s garment as well and his cloak had long fallen off his shoulders. Both pant legs were ripped.

Yusuf was out of breath and his knees were shaking. He didn’t have enough strength in his arms to hold his scimitar up high.

The man stirred and the bright eyes blinked open once more and squinted up at Yusuf. The rising sun was behind Yusuf, his black shadow only just missing the crusader.

He moved sluggishly. Instead of trying to get up on his feet, he maneuvered himself into a kneeling position in front of Yusuf, seating himself in his shadow, with his head bowed submissively. His sword was far from his reach, he hadn’t even attempted to get to it. Just like he hadn’t reached for it last time. Or the time before that. And Yusuf realized that he hadn’t so much been battling with an immortal enemy, so much as slaughtering a defenseless man over and over.

He said something in a language Yusuf didn’t speak, which was an offense to his pride more than anything. Yusuf let out a frustrated grunt in response.

The crusader repeated, louder now: “Se potessi morire per te, lo farei.”

Yusuf’s brain struggled with a puzzle of languages and through his exhaustion he recognized the similarity of some of the words to what little Spanish he had picked up from traders in Tangier.

“Morire per te” sounded like “morir por ti” to him, which he’d translate to “die to you”. Now, granted, the crusaders may very well have spoken in defiance, saying something along the lines of “I refuse to die to you, barbarian”. Because that was exactly what he was doing, inconsiderately _refusing_ to die. But given his defeated posture and the fact that the man had let himself get killed several times before dawn broke, Yusuf surmised – perhaps naively – that he meant to say that he would die to him if he could. That he was as tired of fighting as Yusuf was. Because Yusuf, too, would rather fall dead to the ground than continue this futile dance with the pale soldier.

With a sigh, Yusuf said in broken Spanish: “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

The man looked up at him with a frown. It was the first time Yusuf had spoken to him in a language other than Arabic, but he seemed to understand his words no better. Perhaps Spanish and whatever tongue this man spoke weren’t so similar after all. Perhaps Yusuf’s Spanish was worse than he’d like to think. Or perhaps the man was simply too dimwitted to decipher the common words between the two languages.

In any case, words had failed to communicate any intent. So, instead, Yusuf poignantly dropped his scimitar into the sand. Although this should have made his desire to stop fighting clear, the crusader did not seem relieved. But Yusuf didn’t concern himself with how this infidel was feeling. The battle was over, that was all he could focus on. He tiredly lowered himself down until he was seated in the sand.

Over the course of the night, they had fought through the sea of bodies until they reached clean, loose sand to bleed into. They had fought up a dune and then tumbled down the other side. It was probably for the better that they were out of sight from the city walls now that daylight had come.

Yusuf forced his tired body into position, knowing how to find the qibla – the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca – based on the city. He bent forward, touching his nose to the sand and he prayed. On one hand, it was strange to pray, as it seemed Allah had forsaken him, bound him to the earth and to – of all people – a pale heathen, rather than welcome him in death. But he needed the guidance of faith more than ever. He sang his Salat al-fajr softly, ignoring the animal still seated at his side.

When he was done with his prayer, he sat upright and looked over and stilled at the sight of the crusader lost in his own prayer. Kneeling in the sand, fingers of both hands laced together, eyes closed and head bowed.

A crusader and a Kaysanite warrior, praying side by side outside of the fallen city of Jerusalem. It was heresy for sure, but Yusuf had a sinking feeling that any Muslim and any Christian unable to die in service of their faith, were heretics no matter what.

Yusuf waited for the crusader to finish his prayer. He watched his lips move as he whispered ugly words. Whatever language he spoke, it was as inelegant and curt as the Spanish Yusuf had been subjected to, but he didn’t recognize many words.

The bright eyes cracked open and the gaze settled on him. Fingers unclasped and the barbarian lowered his hands down to rest on his thighs. There was a question in those eyes and even though they did not share the same language, they shared the same questions as they shared this affliction. Yusuf could tell, although that was no reason to pride himself. It took no intelligence to discern as much. The crusader must recognize the same questions in Yusuf’s dark eyes.

Yusuf got up first and the other followed his lead. They eyed each other warily as they moved to pick up their respective swords. They sheathed them simultaneously.

 _What now?_ Yusuf asked himself. He wanted nothing more than to leave this pale man in the desert to be burned by the sun. But whether it had been by the power of Allah or whatever demon this animal served, they were tied together now. No one would understand this unnatural thing that had happened to them, only the other man would understand, would relate, would not recoil in fear or disgust, would not spit condemnations.

Yusuf routinely spoke: “It’s too dangerous to head for the coast. Your people are crawling all over Jaffa,” the port city where they had landed and had used the timber of their ships to build the siege weapons that had penetrated the walls of Jerusalem; raping the holy city. His heart fell as he thought of the suffering that had occurred behind the walls tonight. Murders, rapes, children burnt alive. He had seen the devastation the pale hand was capable of. And he had seen them laugh as the results of their ungodly endeavor. “There is a river that flows North. We’ll go to it upstream, so we can wash.” Perhaps the filthy invader didn’t care about washing himself, like the beast he was, but Yusuf wanted to clean himself of the dried blood.

The man looked at him quizzically, his frown deepening the longer Yusuf spoke.

The Muslim let out a sigh and simply pivoted on his heels and started walking. As he walked a few yards, it dawned on him that through lack of communication, the crusader might mistake his intentions to be to abandon him there, to part ways. For a few more minutes of walking, Yusuf was too stubborn to look back to check if the man was following him, but eventually curiosity got the better of him and he shot a look over his shoulder.

He was relieved to see the man trailing a few steps behind him. The fact that seeing a crusader follow his footsteps would cause him relief was odd and frankly, it pissed him off, but this was Yusuf’s new reality now, until – hopefully – his life would return to normal and death would finally accept him.

Yusuf pushed himself to walk as far North as he could trust his legs could muster. He didn’t want to risk running into a group of his reluctant companion’s comrades. He wasn’t sure how he felt about running into soldiers of the Fatimid army. He wasn’t sure if that would be a comfort to him. They would try to kill the crusader and fail. They would think him a demon for sure. How long until the pale man would betray him and find a way to show that Yusuf was no different from him?

 _No different from a crusader?_ Yusuf resented that the thought even occurred to him.

Sure, they both came back from death, but one similarity did not make them equals; did not make them the same. They were still as different as the moon and the sun. And like the moon and the sun, they were never supposed to be together.

After two hours of walking, Yusuf had led them to the river, barely a stream this far north. Another hour’s worth on horseback and they would be in the mountains where the river originated.

At the river bank, standing in the dry grass that managed to grow there, Yusuf started shedding his armor and garments and he glanced over at the crusader seeking refuge from the sun in the shade of a tree. His shoulders were red and raw but after only a few seconds under the canopy of leaves, his skin was pale once more, save from where he was stained with blood. He stood with his back towards Yusuf and it was unwise of him to trust him like that.

Yusuf smirked bitterly. The Christians were slaves to their baser instincts, raping as their pillaged, yet they were so superficially pious that the sight of another man naked affronted them.

However, Yusuf was not going to wade into the water leaving his armor and sword in the grass for the crusader to steal. The man had to get into the river too. Besides, if they would be spending time together, he didn’t want him to be reeking of old blood.

“Infidel,” He called in Arabic and the back he was faced with stiffened, but other than that there was no response. He scoured the ground and picked up a clump of dried earth and he tossed it at him.

That got a reaction.

The man turned around, his expression comically indignant until he noticed Yusuf was completely naked and he turned back around again. 

Yusuf chewed on the inside of his cheek and tried Spanish again. “Lávate,” He ordered, which he knew to mean “wash yourself”. In Arabic he groused: “Wash yourself, you filthy Christian.”

“Lavati?” The man wondered, unsure.

Yusuf frowned. The two words sounded similar. “Si.”

“Sì?” The inflection was a little different, but, again, very similar.

“Lavati, sì,” Yusuf said, mimicking him, but with a stern tone.

After a moment of hesitation, the crusader started to rid himself of the shreds that were left of his clothing. His belt and the scabbard with his sword fell into the sand heavily.

Yusuf watched him undress, not sharing in that ‘Christian shame’. This was still the enemy and he intended on keeping a close eye on him. He was dirty under his clothing. Blood and mud. He was a thin man. Not emaciated, but not muscular like Yusuf. He must have gone without proper food for a while and Yusuf knew that the Christian knights liked to implore their troops to fast before battles as part of their ritualistic siege on the Holy Land. Muslims understood fasting, but fasting before a battle, after spending weeks at sea? Not a bright idea.

Then again, no Muslim had ever accused the Christians of being bright.

With defiant eyes the crusader walked past him and to the river and Yusuf followed while maintaining a safe distance between them. He knew animals could lash out unexpectedly.

They both waded into the water, a few yards between them. At the deepest point the water still only reached to his midriff, but Yusuf braved to dive under the surface momentarily to get himself completely wet. He wished his horse hadn’t succumbed in the battle. He had soap in his saddle bag. For now, just the cleansing force of water had to do. He scrubbed his beard and the curls on top of his head, all the while keeping his gaze trained on the crusader.

The water washed away the blood that had discolored his face, revealing just how pale he was compared to Yusuf. His hair had seemed black before, but after tilting his head back into the stream and rinsing it for a while, it turned to a dark brown, which Yusuf supposed would lighten further as it would dry. The sleek hair was almost long enough to reach his shoulders, which were instantly pinking up again under the attention of the sun.

Long, white fingers scrubbed his face and then suddenly the bright gaze was fixed on Yusuf and he took a moment to study the man.

His eyes were bigger and more expressive than he had ever seen on a man and there was more soul to them than he had ever seen on a _Christian_ man, for sure. His nose was large and rounded, but not unattractively so, like he had seen on some of the other crusaders. Some of whom had noses so offensive, Yusuf had actually taken the time to cut them off after he had killed them.

A light scruff of a beard framed his mouth and lined his jaw. The kind of beard not even worthy of the word. The kind Yusuf could grow when he was only a young boy. But Christian men, he knew, were vain and spent much time shaving their beards. Yusuf always thought they could use more hair to hide some of their ugliness and make them more like real men. Their shaven jaws oftentimes too effeminate.

But this Christian wasn’t that ugly.

No, not ugly at all.

He had a handsome face. But even animals could be handsome. Yusuf had admired many a horse and a hound.

He wondered what the other thought, as Yusuf, in turn, was also being scrutinized. He would probably think ill of Yusuf’s thick beard and his black curls and his dark skin made for being in the sun.

Once they were both clean, they emerged from the river. Yusuf resented getting back into his dirty clothes and was already working out a plan to get new clothes at a market in a small settlement even further North, in the mountains. All they had to do was keep following the river to find it. He doubted the invaders had gotten there yet. Doubted they even knew about it. They only knew what they coveted and they coveted no simple village, out of their way.

Yusuf still had his pouch with coins on him, perhaps enough to buy a horse as well once they would reach a larger city.

He started walking again and, just like last time, the crusader followed him.

They reached the village just before nighttime. Yusuf knew it would not be safe for the crusader to be seen. His pale skin and hair that had lightened further, as expected, were a giveaway that he did not belong. To be seen with him, was dangerous for Yusuf too. The fact that they couldn’t die didn’t make it any safer. If anything, it made it more dangerous and more terrifying; the idea of what would be done to them in case they were captured.

Yusuf didn’t even know if they were immortal to any blow, or only to each other’s assaults, but he did not want to find out tonight. He wanted clothes, food, and rest first, before he would try to tackle the questions that crowded his mind.

He turned around and held up his hands, urging the other to stop.

He did but he arched an eyebrow at him.

Yusuf crouched down and waited for the other to mirror him. It was like communicating with a child. “Stay,” He said in hopeful Arabic. “Wait here.”

If anything the one eyebrow was raised higher.

He sighed. “Espere,” He said, possibly, probably, grammatically incorrect, but meaning as much as “wait”, simply. He repeated the word along with the halting hand gesture he had made earlier.

Realization appeared to dawn on the man. “Aspettare?”

Testing their communication skills, Yusuf rose to his feet and backed up a few steps, still holding his hand out. He said: “Sì, aspettare.” He kept a close eye on him as he backed away further. It was more like trying to train a dog than talking to a child, he thought. “Aspettare.” It was working. The crusader remained put, crouched and hidden in the shrubbery. Yusuf held up a single finger, again meaning to communicate “wait” and he also brought it to his lips, a motion he knew to be universal.

He turned and headed into the village.

He asked around a bit to find a merchant willing to sell to him, after most homes had closed their shutters for the night. From the top of the hill, he could see Jerusalem. Part of the city was still burning and Yusuf’s anger returned to him, after a day that had been too odd to be angering.

He resented having to spend money on clothes for the infidel, but he wanted them to attract as little attention as possible. He bought them both trousers, tunics, and cloaks, as well as bread, some goat cheese, and skins with water.

An hour later, he returned to the spot where he had left his unwanted companion and was confronted with a myriad of warring emotions when he found the man exactly where he had left him. Part of him had hoped he had ran off in the night. 

The man scrambled to his feet, hearing Yusuf’s approach too late. On alert, he drew his sword, the sound of the blade coming free from the scabbard obscenely loud in the quiet of the foothills of the mountain. Yusuf dropped the bundle he was holding and drew his own sword.

The bright eyes finally recognized him in the low light of the moon and the longsword was lowered, but only slightly. There was unmistakable distrust there, as there should be. It reflected Yusuf’s own feelings.

He knew the crusader likely feared that Yusuf had recruited some men from the village and led them to his hiding spot to try and kill him once and for all. And only when that thought occurred to him did he wonder why that wasn’t exactly what he had done. He concluded it was probably because if this Christian beast ever proved to be mortal again, Yusuf wanted to be the one to strike him down for good and let him bleed out in the dirt.

For now, he sheathed his scimitar, gathered his purchases in his arms and started to walk deeper into the wilderness, leading the crusader away from a village full of people more than glad to slaughter him like a goat if they could. He heard a sword be sheathed behind him and then he heard footsteps trailing him. It was no comfort, but at least this wordless understanding that the crusader was supposed to follow him, saved him from some frustration.

Yusuf walked until he could no longer see the lights of the village nor those of Jerusalem below. He put the things down in a clearing and started to gather wood for a fire, disappearing into the bushes.

When he returned with his arms full of dried branches, he looked in surprise at the circle of stones the crusader had made, to be a barrier around their would-be fire.

Moments later, the campfire was blazing, chasing away the cool air of the desert night. They sat on opposite sides of the flames and Yusuf watched the fire reflect in those light eyes. He shivered even though the fire kept him warm.

Unceremoniously, he tossed him a pair of trousers, a tunic, and the cheaper one of the two cloaks he had purchased. Once they had both dressed themselves, Yusuf opened the bag with provisions he had gotten. He got out some flatbread and cheese. He considered not sharing any of the food, wondering if starvation could accomplish what his sword could not, but he decided that would just be terribly boring. So he tore off a piece of bread and threw it into the sand at the man’s feet.

Surely, Allah did not expect him to be cordial about any of this.

The Christian looked offended, dangerously so. Yusuf grinned and took a big bite of bread and then of cheese. He was not going to share the cheese. It was good cheese. Dry bread would have to do for the invader.

For a moment he thought the Christian would be too proud to eat the bread, but eventually slim, long fingers plucked the piece out of the sand, diligently took their time brushing it clean and then he ate it, chewing slowly. The gaze that met Yusuf’s was defiant.

Yusuf’s anger burned hotter than the flames between them. He didn’t know how the two of them would be able to sleep. He held the man’s gaze, watching his eyelids go heavy as the stars moved above them. Eventually, the man sagged down into the sand, legs still bent at the knee from how he had previously been sitting cross-legged. It looked horribly uncomfortable, but he slept anyway.

Or, Yusuf thought, it could be a ruse.

He was being tricked.

Neither of them knew when this curse would leave their bodies and make them mortal again. Maybe now that they were far removed from the holy city, their gods would stop interfering with their deaths.

His own eyes burned with sleep too and he wished to close them and get some rest. But whenever he closed his eyes he saw burning homes, crying children and dismembered soldiers. And it was all the fault of the Christians and – in that specific moment – the blame fell on _this specific_ Christian.

He could stab him, but then he would ruin the clothes he had just bought.

So, without further consideration, Yusuf grabbed one of the big rocks that encircled their campfire, one of the rocks the Christian had placed there. He ignored how the hot stone burned in his palm. He deftly crawled over to the slumped form of the man, still unresponsive, and when he knelt over him he held the stone high in the air, above his head.

The bright eyes flew open, but there was only enough time for there to be fear, no retaliation. Yusuf brought the rock down with as much force as he could muster and cracked the man’s face like a walnut with a single blow to his cheekbone.

Now the stone was wet and warmer still with blood. It slipped from Yusuf’s trembling fingers and landed in the sand with a dull thud.

“Allah, please let it be done,” He begged.

He had caved the man’s head in on the battlefield outside of Jerusalem as well, but not as badly as he had now. He stared at the gaping wound, which did not stir, did not knit itself back together as he had witnessed again and again. Half of the man’s face didn’t look like a face anymore and suddenly Yusuf was nauseous and he scampered back.

It was done.

He felt no relief.

But nothing would ever relieve him of this anger and anguish that he felt.

He wiped his bloody hand on his thigh and wondered if he himself could die now too. Perhaps that was the only relief he had to look forward to.

Then suddenly he was tackled to the ground, dangerously close to the hot flames. The man sat on his hips, pinning him down, and his fingers were a vice around Yusuf’s neck.

He bucked under him, trying to throw him off, as if Yusuf was an untamed horse, but it didn’t work. He clawed at the linen sleeves that covered the man’s arms, then thought to scratch at his face – his mended face - and later to punch his abdomen, but nothing worked to ease the grip the feral beast had on him.

He dug his fingers into the sand, grabbing a fistful of it and threw it into those big eyes. He watched them squeeze shut in pain and the man let out a roar and he squeezed tighter, crushing Yusuf’s windpipe so that even when he let go and rolled off him, Yusuf still couldn’t breathe and he died with his face burning and his eyes feeling like they would explode out of his head.

He woke to the crackling of the fire and nothing else.

With a grunt he sat upright. He swallowed and his throat hurt. He swallowed again and it hurt no more. He touched his neck, remembering the grip of the fingers. Trying to kill him in his sleep had probably been a bad idea.

Ok, it had demonstrably been a bad idea…

But Yusuf was a passionate and temperamental guy and never claimed to always be in charge of his emotions.

He looked around the bare campsite. It was still dark except for the orange of the flames and the blue of the moon. The barbarian was missing but none of Yusuf’s belongings had been disturbed. The man had taken no food and hadn’t even stolen his scimitar or the dagger that had accompanied their tumble down the other side of the dune, lodged between the Christian’s ribs that time.

Yusuf knew the man couldn’t be far. Death was a short ordeal for them both. He jumped up to his feet and searched the sand for footprints leading away from their campsite and then followed them. In the barren wasteland, he was quick to spot his silhouette moving away. If the man’s intentions had been to go back to Jerusalem, he was going entirely the wrong way. There was nothing but empty desert where he was going.

The Kaysanite stopped and watched the man as he walked away from him. Should he even follow him? Perhaps this was for the better. After all, how could they ever peacefully coexist? No Muslim and Christian could.

He shook his head then. This wasn’t about peace. This was about that curse they shared. Yusuf had no answers and it seemed the other had no answers to offer either, but their best chance to figure things out would be together. Surely, at some point, one of their gods would come to either of them and let them in on the cruel joke?

So with a light jog he chased after him and he called to him the word he had learned: “Aspettare!” _Wait!_

The man spun around, reaching for the handle of his sword, he half drew it but stopped when Yusuf held up both hands, showing him his palms. He had left his scimitar and the dagger behind at the campsite.

Yusuf studied the pale man in the moonlight. One side of his face was black with his own blood from when Yusuf had smashed half his head in. The expression in his eyes was a complicated mix of fear and loathing and betrayal and guilt and much more that Yusuf could not put into words.

Words, yes… those were difficult between them. Yusuf wasn’t about to apologize. No Muslim would ever apologize to an invader, for whatever reason. They did not deserve it. He also refused to promise not to do it again. Because as soon as there was a hint that their mortality had returned to them, he most certainly would try again. He realized that none of that mattered though, what he was or was not willing to say. Because the man wouldn’t understand him regardless. He tried to explain himself in Arabic and broken Spanish but the expression in the bright eyes did not waver.

At a loss for what else to do, Yusuf prodded his finger at his own chest and spoke his name slowly.

Eyebrows lowered, darkening the eyes.

“Yusuf,” He repeated, trying his best not to sound impatient.

“Yusuf?”

“Sì.” He expected to get a name in return, but the man didn’t say anything. Either he was denying him an introduction – like the animal he was – or he failed to understand the meaning of what had been spoken to him, mistaking it for another word he failed to grasp. Again, because he was stupid like an animal, probably.

Yusuf sighed and motioned for him to follow him and he started back towards the campsite and the Christian did.

When they returned they sat down across from each other again, exactly as they had.

The nameless man sat next to the red sand on which he had died shortly before. He wet the corner of the cloak he was given with some water and started wiping at the right side of his face, cleaning away his own blood.

Yusuf watched him wipe the fabric over his face and scrub at one eyebrow and half of his barely-there beard and then down the long column on his neck where the blood had dripped down as he had sat atop Yusuf, choking the life out of him. When he was done, he let out a sigh that deflated his body.

He titled his head and frowned at a dark speck, a little bit of dirt or perhaps a dried drop of blood on his face, partially hidden by the scruffy hairs on his jaw. It was just South-West of the corner of his mouth. It irked Yusuf that he was still dirty, so he got the man’s attention by jabbing his chin in his direction and then he touched his index finger to his own face. Even young children would understand what that meant and sure enough, pale fingers reached up to touch that dark spot on his jaw. Yusuf mimed scrubbing his face, to let him know he should clean himself more thoroughly.

The man said something in that ugly language that sounded vaguely familiar but all wrong.

Of course Yusuf had no idea what it meant. With a grunt he got up on his feet and walked over to him. The barbarian shot up to his feet and Yusuf showed him his open palms again, to let him know he meant no harm. Not this time. Not yet.

If he was going to suffer the sight of his pale face, he’d rather it be clean. The filthy Christians may not understand this, but as a Muslim, he valued cleanliness. He reached out a hand and the man jolted back like a startled, nervous horse. Wild eyes held his gaze.

Yusuf tried again, slower this time. The Christian stood stiffly, but allowed the hand to get closer until Yusuf swiped his thumb along his jaw, scratching through the fine hairs of his scruff, the texture very different from Yusuf’s own facial hair. He felt the raised bump on the skin.

“Oh, it’s a mole,” He declared in Arabic and dropped his hand down. He must have just missed it before, looking at his face as little as possible. Yusuf let out a laugh at having discovered the obvious blemish on what was otherwise a pretty face. If the man could grow a decent beard, he could at least hide it better. He laughed again.

The Christian put his hand over his jaw, covering the skin Yusuf had just touched. He was offended, whether due to vanity or insecurity, Yusuf could not tell but he stopped laughing.

Standing close to him, he could hear the man’s stomach growling. He probably should have given him a little more bread than he had earlier. So Yusuf walked back to his pack and retrieved a decent chunk of flatbread and tore off a piece from the cheese as well. Rather than tossing it into the sand, he walked around the fire again and held it out to him.

An offering of food felt a lot like a peace offering, but this was not that. So Yusuf spoke, knowing full well not a single word would be understood: “You will die by my sword or not at all.”

Tentatively, the Christian accepted the food that was proffered and he murmured “Grazie.”

They both sat down again and Yusuf watched him eat. He wasn’t hungry himself.

Understandably, the Christian was reluctant to let himself fall asleep this time. So Yusuf was the first to lay down, wrapping his cloak around himself. He would have bought a bedroll as well, but until he could purchase a horse, they would have to travel light.

He closed his eyes. If the man killed him, it would be futile. It would hurt, but it hurt more to deny himself sleep any longer. A soft spoken word had him cracking his eyes open.

“Nicolò.”

He turned his head and squinted at the other through the flames.

The man pointed his finger at his own chest, like Yusuf had done before and he said again: “Nicolò.”

Nicolò.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Future chapters will come soon as it is only a matter of proofreading before posting. The full story is a little over 60.000 words, haven't figured out yet how many chapters I'll split it into. 
> 
> I've chosen not to make Nicky a bad-ass warrior from the start because of 3 things I picked up in the movie that I am happy to share with you because I am obsessed ;)
> 
> \- I love Luca, no disrespect to him as he is perfect as Nicky, but he has said himself in an interview that the stunt crew was probably not too impressed with him initially when he trained for his fight scenes. Of the cast, I think Luca is the least organic in the fight scenes; looks a little too choreographed and unnatural at times. My mind happily ran with that, making it part of my head-canon as Nicky not being as adept in close-quarters combat because he was never meant to be a warrior and he doesn't have that instinct the rest of them has (only 900 years of practice to make up for most of it). Taking up sniping instead because it's less personal, so it's easier for him, while still allowing him to add value to the team. 
> 
> \- In the basement where they are ambushed, the order is, from left to right: Booker, Joe, Andy, Nicky. Joe and Nicky are separated by Andy and several feet. However, as soon as they get back up after dying, Joe makes it over to the far side of the room - like, he literally sprints across to come to stand in front of Nicky, completely ignoring Andy along the way. It's visible in the movie but almost comically obvious in a behind the scenes I've seen with a different camera angle. And, again, I've kind of just concluded for myself that it's not just because Joe's still in love after almost a millennium and is being overprotective, but because Joe knows he's a better fighter than Nicky, so he ought to protect him.
> 
> \- Twice, Nicky only deflects an attack and let's Joe come in for the actual kill. Both times during the fight as they escape Merrick's lab. First with the guy who comes out of a room as they move down the hallway. Second when they take the room in which they are later caught off guard by the explosion. Both times Nicky only deflects and Joe goes for a head shot. Again, I like to think it's because Nicky doesn't have the same killer-instinct (because "his heart overflows with a kindness this world is not worthy of") and knows Joe is always there to finish the job.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for opening up this chapter! I hope you will enjoy!

**2020**

“And that is how we met,” Joe concluded, tightening his hold on Nicky. He enjoyed the way his lover had rested his head against his shoulder as he had told the story.

“No fucking way I’m gonna get let you leave it at that!” Nile protested, pushing herself upright in her seat. Her gaze had been far and unfocused as she had listen to Joe speak, but now she zeroed in on him with a fury that – if nurtured well – would bestow fear on the hearts of their enemies for centuries to come and the world would be a better place because of it. “This story sucks!”

“Hey, show some respect, ours is literally the greatest love story in existence,” He chastised mildly.

“Not if you end it here.”

“Nicky is tired,” Joe said. He could sense it in the way he sat slouched against him and in the rhythm of his breathing. Nicky had been tired a lot lately, he hadn’t slept well for a while. Since… “We’re gonna go to bed and we shall continue the story some other time.” At his urging Nicky got up from the couch and crossed the living room. Joe got up too and paused to pat Nile on her knee to soothe her impatience.

She looked up at him with the pleading eyes of a child. Oh, she was so young and that, too, was a powerful thing. “Please? Let Nicky sleep and tell me a little more?”

His face became stern but not unkind, he felt like a parent. “Nicky does not sleep alone,” He simply said and he followed his everything, who was waiting for him in the doorway to the hall.

In a hushed voice, Nicky said: “It’s ok. You can stay up and tell her more. I know your favorite part is still coming.”

“My favorite part is being with you in the here and now. You will go to bed and I will be at your side, where I belong.” He leaned in and kissed him, precisely on the mole he had once mocked. Not a blemish, but a beauty mark.

He followed Nicky upstairs, to their bedroom. They had stopped sleeping with all four of them piled into a single room only a week ago, after switching safe houses for the third time since London. They didn’t trust Copley yet, even if they had little choice but to force themselves. He had given them a nice peace offering: he had returned Joe’s scimitar and Nicky’s longsword to them, having used a contact in Paris to get the weapons from the police who investigated what had happened in Goussainville.

They changed safe houses after that, to one where Copley would not be able to find them. And then one more time after that, just to be sure they hadn’t been tracked somehow. Although, without Booker, it would be hard to tell if Copley was the only one keeping track of their digital footprints. Nile would have to fill that slot in the team. Nicky, Andy and Joe were not the best with modern technology.

Nicky checked how many bullets were left in the cartridge of his gun before he hid the weapon between the mattress and the bedframe. Meanwhile, Joe undressed himself until he was naked and crawled into bed first. He watched Nicky strip off his clothes. Even though there was nothing purposefully sensual to it, there was always a beauty to the movement of his long limbs and the expanse of his skin being revealed and Joe’s appreciation for it had never waned over the centuries. In fact, in had only gotten stronger.

When Nicky’s body was bare, Joe lifted the sheet, inviting him into the bed. His love lay down and Joe cocooned him in the soft fabric and in his strong arms. He nuzzled his nose into the hair at the nape of his neck and kissed the skin over the bump of a vertebrae. Joe raised his head off the pillow and hooked his chin over Nicky’s shoulder, half resting the weight of his head on Nicky’s. He squeezed his arms around him tighter. Nicky was never close enough, not even now, with Joe’s chest pressed up against his back, his soft manhood slotted between his cheeks, and their legs entangled.

“I didn’t like this part of the story,” Joe confessed in a whisper. He smiled as Nicky entwined their fingers and pressed his hand so tight against his chest that he could feel his heartbeat.

“It gets better,” Nicky said.

“Hmmm…” He kissed a line up the side of his neck to his ear and traced the shell with his lips, eliciting shudders. “So much better.” But also, in some ways, so much worse. He tried not to think about that yet.

“Do you think it’s a good thing, telling her?”

“Why would you ask that?” He closed his eyes. _Of course_. “Booker.”

“It’s a lot. I don’t want her to be overwhelmed.”

“Our story is one of hope, Nicky. That all hurt can be overcome. That all hate is shallow. That all can be forgiven.” He kissed his cheek, again and again, until Nicky turned his head so he could capture his mouth.

“Even Booker?” Nicky asked against his lips. “You seemed pretty insistent on those one hundred years.”

“Nicky, you know me better than that.”

“I do. You are the most forgiving man I have ever met… You have forgiven me.”

He kissed him deeply. Yes, he had forgiven him. A thousand times over. “I wish you would forgive yourself like I have forgiven you.”

Nicky ignored the plea and asked instead: “So why did you not agree to anything less than one hundred years?”

“Because before we forgive him in a couple years’ time, he has to feel this guilt. And when we let him come back – five or ten years from now – he has to know that it is not because he deserves it, he deserves that century, but because we are his family and no matter how badly he screws up, we will always be family. Maybe, then, he will finally realize that he has never been as alone as he pities himself to be.”

Nicky smiled. “So that is why.”

“Hn. Oh and I was also very, very pissed off. I might have genuinely wanted a hundred years without having to look at his face at that moment.” He reveled in how he felt his Nicky chuckle, the sound barely more than quick, stuttering breaths. “It’ll be good for her to hear the story. Then Nile will understand what Booker’s punishment really is. She can stop feeling so sorry for him. And she will understand us. So she can stop rolling her eyes at us. This child needs to respect our love.” There was no malice in his tone. There never was, when he spoke of Nile. She was a good kid. It was evident, even after this short time.

Joe kissed him one last time and then settled behind him. “Sleep now, mio caro. I am here.” He buried his nose in his hair, greedily breathing in his scent. Nicky relaxed in his arms and his breathing evened out. 

The Italian would only wake up once that night, trembling and sweating, but Joe was quick to shush him back to sleep. So quick that in the morning, Nicky didn’t even remember having had a nightmare at all.

The bathroom was unoccupied when they woke up, so they took their time showering together, languidly kissing and bringing each other to orgasm with light touches. They hadn’t made love yet, since before they were captured, not only because they had been sharing a bedroom with the girls for the better part of the month that had passed. When they wanted to, they could always find a time and a place. No, Joe understood that some old hurts felt fresh after what had been done to them. While these hurts made Joe want to be as intimate as possible with Nicky all the more, he knew that Nicky’s invisible scars had the opposite effect on him. Joe would be patient; he always was for his Nicky.

The men made their way downstairs, hair still wet and skin still damp. Joe enjoyed how Nicky’s white shirt clung to his back and chest, getting wet from the steady drip of water coming down from his hair.

Andy was nowhere to be seen, even though they passed the open door of her empty bedroom on their way down. She liked to go on long walks. Joe wasn’t worried. Well, not any more so than since finding out she was mortal once more.

Nile was still sleeping. For a Marine, she had the awful habit of sleeping in late. It was only a matter of time before Andy would work that out of her in the most annoying was possible.

Joe made coffee. Nicky made breakfast.

Soon enough, their new recruit was drawn downstairs by the smell of bacon and caffeine.

“Mmm, perhaps the best thing about immortality is not having to worry about clogged arteries.”

“You are truly wise beyond your years, Nile,” Joe mocked. He set a cup of coffee in front of her, knowing she needed it. Soon after, Nicky served her an omelet with vegetables and two strips of bacon.

“Only two?”

“Don’t be greedy,” Nicky said and he repeated it in Italian: “Non essere avido.”

“Should I really be taught you guys’ secret love language? Do I _really_ want to know what filthy stuff you two say to each other?”

They only briefly looked up when the back door open and Andy walked in. She shook her rain-soaked jacket off her shoulders and joined them in the kitchen.

“We have many more ‘secret’ languages to choose from once we teach you Italian,” Nicky said and he continued solemnly: “One by one we will teach you all of them, until there are no secrets left.”

“By then nothing will shock you,” Joe interjected with a grin.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Andy leaned over Nicky’s shoulder to look into the pan. “Ease up on the paprika for mine. And all four of those strips better be for me.” She sat down at the table and stole Nile’s coffee. The young one protested but she was quickly silenced by Joe handing her a new steaming mug.

Andy said: “If I am to die, it shall be death by bacon. That’s the true gift bestowed on you three, you know? Fat won’t kill you.”

Nile looked at the two men triumphantly. “That’s pretty much exactly what I said! And you said I’m not wise.”

“I never said Andy was wise either.” Joe laughed.

“So how far into the story did you get last night?” The oldest inquired, taking a sip of coffee.

Nile answered: “Nicky had only just introduced himself.”

She smirked. “Oh. You haven’t even gotten to the good bits yet.”

Nile perked up.

Andy spoiled her joy. “Too bad you have a full day of training ahead of you.”

“Do I have to?” She whined.

“Have you mastered Krav Maga?”

“No.”

“Then you have to.” Andy tilted her chin up at the two men. “What about you two?”

“Read,” Said Nicky.

“Draw,” Said Joe.

And that was how the day went. Nile and Andy trained outside. The cottage they stayed at was far removed from the nearest neighbors. Several miles removed, in fact. Nobody around to be nosy.

Nicky sat in the window sill, overlooking the patch of grass where the women trained. He read through an entire book, but with the flip of each page he spared a look outside to check on their youngest and oldest companion. It was so effortless, his care. It was second nature to him.

Page flip. Glance. Read.

Page flip. Glance. Read.

Page flip. Glance. Frown at Andy standing doubled over, waiting for her to straighten herself. Not until he was put at ease did he return his attention to the book. Read.

Page flip. Glance. Read.

Joe watched it all as he drew him. Nicky was his favorite subject. He had sketchbooks and canvases full of him. But no matter how much his talent had grown over the centuries, he never felt like he truly succeeded in capturing the graceful beauty of his love. Every time he thought with pride he had managed, he looked up from the paper only to be once again taken aback by just how wonderful this man was. Not even the invention of photography offered any solutions.

After Nile had wolfed down her dinner, the four of them settled in the living room with glasses of wine.

“Joining us this time, boss?”

“Yeah, like I said: the good stuff is coming.” She joked, but Joe knew she understood their story was not one to be taken lightly. Humor had just become a coping mechanism to all of them. Joe probably relied on it most of all. Nicky the least, although he was always happy to indulge him, to make him feel better.

Joe started: “We had no purpose, as far as we were aware. We certainly had no destination to travel towards. We had nothing but questions and no clue where to find the answers, until I had another dream. A dream of Andy and Quynh. I recognized the place where they were, catching a glimpse of a building behind their faces. A mosque in Tripoli where I had prayed when I was there during my travels years prior.”

He threw a smirk a Nicky. “I wanted to go there, to try and find them, but it was difficult to explain that to him. At the time, we had only been together for a few weeks and the only way we had yet figured out to communicate was with our hands and some common root words between Spanish and Ligurian. But since he followed me anywhere anyway, I decided to just lead him there until he would find a way to actually ask any questions about where we were going.”

* * *

**1099**

They both startled awake at the exact same time and Yusuf was once more left to wonder if Nicolò dreamed of the same two women as he did. The dreams and the terrible curse had to be linked somehow. The women were part of this. Perhaps they were like them. Perhaps they had answers to the questions that burned holes in Yusuf’s consciousness. If Yusuf saw their faces, shouldn’t Nicolò as well?

Yusuf and Nicolò had been wondering the desert aimlessly for a fortnight. They had nowhere to go. They didn’t belong anywhere, because everywhere Yusuf belonged, Nicolò did not. And everywhere Nicolò belonged – well, first of all, Nicolò’s people didn’t belong anywhere near there at all – and also: Yusuf wouldn’t belong. The only way to stay safe was to stay away from people. So they traveled, putting the Dead Sea between them and Jerusalem.

With no companionship other than his enemy, Yusuf worried intellectual under-stimulation would drive him to madness. He had taken to talking to Nicolò in Arabic, in spite of the fact that he wouldn’t understand him. And in turn, Nicolò spoke his tongue back to him. It was if as they were having a conversation, going back and forth, but the sole purpose of it was to work their mouths, remind themselves of the sounds of their own voice, and fill the desert as much as they could to leave no space for the uncomfortable silence to settle in.

At first Yusuf spoke mostly about how much he hated Christians and described creative ways in which he would kill Nicolò as soon as there was reason to suspect a death would be permanent. He didn’t care what Nicolò was saying during his pauses.

After a while, he was speaking nonsense. Stories he made up on the sport, inspired by fata morgana’s. He pretended Nicolò was doing the same.

Yusuf prayed five times a day as he ought to, performing his Salahs dutifully. And whenever Yusuf prayed, so did Nicolò. It was still the oddest thing to the Arab; a Muslim and a Christian praying together. But they only stopped to eat, sleep, and for Yusuf to say his prayers, so Nicolò must have figured he had to get his own prayers in whenever he could.

Now it was the dead of night but they were both wide awake. The faces of the women, kind as they were, haunted Yusuf. For all he knew, they were demons. Perhaps they were sorcerers who had inflicted this terrible fate on them, binding him to Nicolò as punishment. Yusuf refused to believe Allah had anything to do with it.

“You see them too?” He asked, watching Nicolò who sat curled over his knees, perhaps trying to sort through that same disorienting dream that Yusuf had had. Nicolò spoke, but only as part of their ritualistic exchange. He wasn’t actually responding to Yusuf. They still didn’t understand each other.

But this was important, so Yusuf tried several variations of the same sentence in Spanish, switching out words in the hopes that he would find one that shared a common ancestor with a word from Nicolò’s language.

Nicolò understood that Yusuf was actually trying to talk to him this time, trying to figure something out. With a deep frown he studied Yusuf’s face as he listened to the words rapidly tumble from his lips but there was never a spark of recognition in his eyes.

Trying to mime it, Yusuf lay back down, as if going to sleep, but kept his gaze trained on the Christian. He tapped his fingers against his temple and acted out getting shocked awake. Then, after a struggle, the only way he could think of to try and symbolize a woman was to cup both hands in front of his chest, as if he was holding big breasts he didn’t have.

Nicolò’s eyes widened and his eyebrows raised and for a moment that seemed to be all the reaction Yusuf was going to get for his effort, until suddenly the crusader burst out laughing.

Yusuf stared.

Nicolò’s shoulders shook with laughter that rang through the desert like the bells of a church. Not an ugly sound, per sé, just terribly out of place here in the desert. The bright eyes squeezed shut, wrinkling in the corners. He bared teeth that were white and well taken care of. His smile was crooked, the right side of his bottom lip lowering more than the left. There was something uncontrollable about it, like a child being caught off guard by their own joy.

The man mimicked the gesture Yusuf had made with his hands and the Arab had to concede it looked a bit vulgar. With a slap Nicolò’s pale hands dropped into his lap and he leaned forward. His brown hair fell in front of his face. He snorted and the sound that escaped him only made him laugh harder.

“Alright. Alright, that’s enough.” Yusuf was getting irked. There was something very disarming about seeing the other man like this, but that was exactly what annoyed him. Instead of trying to push away his frustrations, he opened his heart to them and let it fester into something really worth getting enraged about.

What gave this animal the right to laugh at him? The right to mock him? On _his_ land? Why did he get to be happy, after all the hurt that had been done to Yusuf’s people? When would the Muslims of Jerusalem, or Antioch, or any small village in between, get to laugh again? Would they ever be unburdened enough to get to experience happiness again?

With every question, Yusuf grew more angry. He got up, walked over to the other man and kicked him into the sand. Blood gushed from his rounded nose, staining his lips and running down his chin and throat. When he looked up at Yusuf, the laughter had died in the back of his mouth but he sported a sickening grin, his teeth now red.

Yusuf had his foot planted on the man’s chest. Pale fingers held onto his boot but made no attempt to get the pressure of his weight off, not even as the crusader struggled to breathe.

“You have no right. How dare you mock me? How dare you?” He was practically growling.

The grin faded away. Calm eyes looked up at him. He sucked in a shallow breath and while once more making that gesture in front of his chest, he said: “Donna.”

Yusuf’s eyebrow quirked. “Donna?” He assumed it to mean ‘woman’.

Nicolò nodded. Then he held up two fingers and said: “Due donne.”

“Two women?” He returned in Arabic. He stepped off of him, allowing him to take a proper breath again. “You dream of them too.” He tapped his temple again and repeated the Arab word for dream.

“Sì. Il sogno.” He cautiously sat up and wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic, looking unbothered by it all.

Yusuf’s eyes widened at the confirmation that the Christian dreamed of them too. It was more than just a hallucination on Yusuf’s part. “If they are real, I think I know where they are,” He rambled, as he had gotten accustomed to; talking _at_ Nicolò rather than to him or with him. “I saw them at a mosque where I used to pray, when I was in Tripoli. I studied there. We must go find them. They might have the answers. They might have a cure. If Allah is as merciful as I know him to be, they will be able to let us be free from one another. Because this has to end with one of us killing the other, I will accept no less.”

The newly found purpose led him away from his rage. He walked away from Nicolò doing no further damage than he had, even though he had just come dangerously close to trying to kill him again.

He didn’t even let them sleep the rest of the night. He kicked sand into their campfire until it died out and then he grabbed his things, strapping his scimitar to his hip, and he started walking.

Nicolò, like always, followed him.

With the last of his money, Yusuf could afford more provisions and one horse - an older, silver mare – at the next big city they come across, after making their way back around the Dead Sea. The market was sprawling and busy and covered mostly by his cloak, Nicolò thankfully didn’t draw too much attention.

They would travel to Alexandria, a large port city. There they should be able to barter their way onto a ship. Passage in exchange for work. Ships regularly traveled between Alexandria and Tripoli for trade. It would not be the first time Yusuf would make the journey on the Mediterranean sea.

But it was a long way to Alexandria from where they were, still only just South from Jerusalem, in Be’er Sheva, and it had taken them weeks to even get that far. It would be months until they would reach Alexandria. The thought disheartened Yusuf. In the early weeks, he considered riding off on the horse every night, leaving Nicolò in their temporary camp. But in spite of everything, Yusuf dreaded loneliness more than anything. So instead what he abandoned in the desert were the thoughts of them parting ways.

Since Yusuf had paid for the horse with his money, Nicolò was not allowed to ride the horse, instead walking after Yusuf who sat in the saddle. Yet Nicolò became impossibly attached to the animal. Before resting at night, he would pet her muzzle, speak to her in his ugly language, and comb his fingers through her mane. The horse’s tail he had braided and knotted to keep it from getting matted by wind and sand.

Yusuf observed his attentiveness with curiosity. The first nights it made him angry more than anything. How could this Christian show more decency and care to an animal than any Christian had shown to Yusuf’s people?

But, after a while, it humanized Nicolò to Yusuf, as he himself loved animals too. Horses in particular. Noble and loyal animals. More so than some people. More so than any Christian.

He was subjected to embarrassment when he had been caught staring. Before he could look down and peel open another nut for himself to snack on, Nicolò pointed at him.

“Yusuf,” He said. Then he pointed at himself. “Nicolò.” Finally, he pointed at the horse, with a clear question in his eyes.

Yusuf wasn’t sure if he was asking if the horse had a name or what the Arabic word for horse was. Not knowing the name of the horse, as the merchant hadn’t told him and he hadn’t asked, Yusuf tried, pointing at himself. “Humano.” The Spanish word for human and then said the Arabic word “Bashri”. He pointed at Nicolò and repeated both words. Then he pointed at the horse and said, following the same pattern: “Caballo. Hisan.” Spanish and Arabic for ‘horse’.

Nicolò mirrored him, but, as always, substituted the Spanish word he recognized for his own language. “Umano. Bashri.” He petted the horse. “Cavalla. Hissan.”

“ _Hisan_ ,” He corrected.

“Hisan.”

“Sì.”

But then Nicolò did the same thing he did before, using their names and now Yusuf understood that, although he hadn’t rejected the small vocabulary lesson, that wasn’t what he had asked for.

Yusuf shrugged and said in Arabic: “I don’t know.”

Nicolò knew what he meant and practiced repeating the sentence. It didn’t sound right, but at least he tried. Yusuf let him stumble on the words a few more times before he repeated the sentence, slower this time. Then Nicolò managed. A thick accent, but he was understandable as he said: “I don’t know.” He looked at the horse again and lost himself in contemplation. He stroked his fingers through her silver mane and then titled his chin up. His pale eyes searched the sky and he pointed at the moon. “Luna,” He said.

Yusuf was kind of done teaching him things. He peeled another nut.

Nicolò turned the word into a question. “Luna?”

He sighed. Knowing he wanted an Arabic translation for the moon, he said: “Alqamar.”

“Alguamar?”

“ _Alqamar_.”

Nicolò nodded, oblivious to or not worried about the dangerous dip in Yusuf’s voice. “Yusuf. Nicolò.” He patted the horse. “Alqamar.” He looked at Yusuf expectantly. “Argento come la luna.” With a motion of his hand that had no meaning, only grace, he explained his choice and Yusuf could piece together that it meant “silver like the moon”.

Just like that, Yusuf’s frustration evaporated like a dew drop in the morning sun. “Alqamar,” He agreed. Nicolò smiled and this time it didn’t make Yusuf want to kick him. He could have named the horse Luna, but he named her the Arabic word for the moon instead and Yusuf found it endearing. It could almost be mistaken for respectful. But Yusuf wasn’t that naïve.

The next morning, Yusuf mounted Alqamar after his Salat al-fajr and continued to lead the strange crusader through the desert.

The pace was slow for Nicolò’s sake. But it was probably easier on the mare as well. They stopped at small rivers to let Alqamar drink, nibble from the short grass that managed to grow on the river banks, and rest. The treks in between were long, so sometimes, when they found a river, they rested there all day to recuperate. Yusuf kept an eye on Nicolò too. He was exhausted from walking, but didn’t complain.

After some days he would take to walking next to Alqamar and Yusuf; walking in her large shadow, to let his sunburnt face heal and turn pale again. The closeness to the Christian was uncomfortable at first, but Yusuf grew accustomed to it.

They still talked nonsense to each other most of the time, but also, sometimes, bothered to teach each other words. Sand. Saddle. Sun. River. Water. Grass. Tree. Boots. Hair. Hands. Eyes. Anything they could point to.

Once, when they took a break to take a piss, they even taught each other the words for cock and Yusuf would deny it if any Muslim would ever ask, but he snickered at the way the pale face went red when he said “il cazzo”, angling himself away.

When there was nothing left to point to, they started to teach each other words that they could act out. Eat. Sleep. Ride. Wash. Pray. Fight.

Death.

The intention was practical but the result was comical.

One time, settling down to rest for the night, Yusuf watched Nicolò take off his boots. The blisters on his feet healed as he poured the sand out of a boot.

From then on, they took turns riding Alqamar. Yusuf insisted. He justified it to himself by reminding himself that unlike the Christians who invaded his land, Yusuf was not cruel and Yusuf was not unfair.

It was only the third day that Nicolò was allowed to ride, with Yusuf being the one to walk in the shadow of the horse, when he spurred the mare on with his heels. Yusuf’s eyes widened as Alqamar leapt into a sprint and before he could reach for the scabbard of his scimitar that was strapped to the saddle, next to the longsword, horse and rider were out of reach.

He didn’t try to run after them, it would be a futile pursuit. Alqamar could easily be outrun by younger horses but not by a man. He cursed at himself for allowing himself to be tricked like this. He denied that the long con that had been pulled on him was impressive. Nicolò had abided all this time, waiting for him to finally let him mount to horse to leave him behind, stealing his sword and all the provisions. He should not have underestimated the cunning of a Christian.

The betrayal flooded him with sadness instead of anger and that gave him more shame than the humiliation of being tricked by a dimwitted Christian.

But then Alqamar turned sharply, kicking up dust. Nicolò tugged at her reigns, steering her. His face was lit up with a smile. Alqamar came running back towards Yusuf as fast as she had run away. Nicolò rode her well. He was weightless in the saddle.

He hadn’t tried to flee. He was having fun.

“You are a child!” Yusuf scolded in Arabic as Nicolò made Alqamar dart around the Muslim and return to walk by his side. “You are just wasting her energy, you fool.”

The man patted Alqamar’s neck, as if thanking her and then he settled back in the saddle and they continued their journey peacefully.

And Yusuf tried very hard not to think of how relieved he was when horse and rider had come charging back towards him. When he failed at that, he made himself believe that it was only the horse he would miss, and his sword. Not that weird man and his ugly smile.

The land was less barren as they eventually came closer to Alexandria. The hills here were dotted with farms and small settlements of only a few homes. They came across more travelers who had come from the South, where Cairo lay. Dark eyes regarded Nicolò with appropriate distrust, even more so when he tried to offer them a small smile and a polite nod.

When they crossed the Nile, Yusuf knew they only had a few more days of travel ahead of them before they would reach Alexandria and only then did he realize how the months’ worth of traveling had flown by.

As they camped during the nights, they had to be more alert, making sure not to attract any dangerous attention. During the days they steered clear of the more traveled routes. Avoiding travelers sometimes meant taking a detour.

They didn’t only have to worry about retribution from one of Yusuf’s people. There were crusaders in the area as well, small groups of them. The Christian knights were like a disease spreading across the land. In the distance a plume of black smoke poisoned the sky and Yusuf’s heart sank. “Your people, probably. Looting another village.” His instinct was to go to their aid, but even if he spurred Alqamar to gallop as fast as she could in her old age, it would still take half a day to get there and it would be too late anyway. At their current pace, they would see the aftermath in two or three days.

He studied Nicolò’s face. There was a familiar anguish in his eyes. It was like looking in a mirror in a way. It caused Yusuf to turn his head and not even so much as glance at Nicolò for the rest of the day.

After morning prayer, they continued along their way.

Yusuf was enjoying the silence one afternoon, filled only by the panting of Alqamar and the sound of her hooves. They hadn’t seen any travelers yet that day and it was relaxing. He was in the saddle, had been since they stopped for a lunch of figs that they had plucked – stolen, technically, but the farmer had an orchard with hundreds of fig trees.

Nicolò had ridden that morning, now he walked next to the horse. He had taken off his cloak and had draped it over the back of the saddle. After months in the desert, the pale man was finally starting to enjoy the sun a bit, when the day was coming to an end and the rays of the sun were less intense and didn’t immediately turn his skin red.

The rider had his eyes trained on the horizon to their left, counting the rows of fig trees as they passed him. Truly, the farmer could not begrudge them for taking a few.

His body rocked gently with the bounce of Alqamar’s gait.

A whistle cut through the silence and then Nicolò gasped.

Yusuf looked down. He was going to ask him what was wrong, one of the few short phrases they had figured out between them.

He stiffened when Nicolò flung his arm out and his hand grasped at Yusuf’s thigh but his fingers were too weak to take hold. His eyes and mouth were open wide as he sagged to his knees, his hand trailing along the length of Yusuf’s leg as he crumbled beside the horse.

An arrow had pierced him, straight through the heart. He was dead as soon as he hit the ground.

For a moment Yusuf’s heart stopped as well.

“Nicolò!” He jumped out of the saddle and crouched next to his fallen companion.

Riders came storming towards them, five of them. Rogue Muslim warriors who had tasked themselves with seeking vengeance on the crusaders. Yusuf had been like them before he joined the Fatimid army.

He straightened up, leaving Nicolò lying still at his feet with the bolt still embedded in his chest. Normally the man would have awoken from death by now, but Yusuf suspected that leaving the arrow in his heart prevented it from mending and beating once more.

That, or another terrifying possibility. That it was only they who couldn’t kill each other, but that they were not invulnerable to the assault of others.

Why did that scare him?

He felt like he did that afternoon when Nicolò had suddenly taken off on their horse.

No. No, he felt worse.

The five riders surrounded him and one of them spoke, with an Arabic dialect different from his own native tongue, but Yusuf was fluent in most languages spoken along the entire Southern coast of the Mediterranean sea.

“Why are you traveling with a white-faced man?”

“He was my prisoner,” He lied to protect himself. “You cost me my bounty.”

“He doesn’t look like a prisoner. He’s not tied up.”

“There was no need. He was weak, like all white men. He couldn’t have escaped, even if he hadn’t lacked the bravery to try.”

Some of them snickered at that.

But one of them said: “I want his head. To take to the village that his people raided.”

“No.”

The warrior frowned. “Why not?”

“I might still get part of the sum I am owed, if I can prove he is dead.” He remained calm as he lied through his teeth.

“Then you take the head and we shall take his pale body, along with your horse to carry it. We will crucify it like his false Lord. By the main road to Alexandria, for the knights to see.”

Yusuf’s fists were clenching at his sides. “No. You are not taking him and you are not taking my horse.”

Two of them dismounted, getting closer to him.

“You are a traitor.” One of the warriors spat. “I do not believe he was your prisoner. I heard your shout when he fell. You cried out as if he were a friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” Yusuf seethed. “And I am no traitor to my people.” He unsheathed his scimitar from the scabbard that was strapped to the saddle. Alqamar bristled nervously. He knew that as soon as he drew his sword, a battle was inevitable, but he was prepared for it.

The archer of the group, still seated in his saddle, raised his bow, but Yusuf was swift. He cleaved his sword into the man’s thigh and the arrow released with little force, hitting the sand. The two men afoot came to their fellow warrior’s defense but Yusuf cut them down easily and then pulled the archer from his horse and he sliced his throat.

A bone chilling neigh from Alqamar drew Yusuf’s attention and he looked over his shoulder to see the man who had accused him of being a traitor, hack his sword into the horse’s neck. Blood sprayed on him and Alqamar’s legs buckled under her.

“No!” Yusuf screamed and he charged towards the man who went to stand over Nicolò with his sword raised high above his head, with the clear intention of decapitating him. It was like the warrior knew he and the one other man remaining were no match for Yusuf and he just wanted to cause him as much pain as possible before he would be slain by Yusuf’s scimitar.

Yusuf’s blocked the strike of the warrior’s sword with his own, protecting Nicolò’s body. He let out a cry when the other man attacked him from behind, stabbing him low in his back. His muscles burned when the steel was pulled out of him. Yusuf swung his sword around and gutted the man, while the wound on his back – a wound that would have been mortal to anybody else – was already healing. Then he returned his attention to the final warrior. He blocked another strike of his sword. Again and again. The hateful man hacked at him inelegantly, exhausting his arms. Yusuf walked forward, forcing the man to continue stepping back, away from Nicolò and away from Alqamar.

Eventually he didn’t have the strength left to raise his sword anymore. “You shall be punished by Allah.”

“I already am,” He growled. He swung his sword down and cut into the warrior’s shoulder, just like he had cut into Nicolò that very first time, outside of Jerusalem. That had been months ago now, but he flinched at a vivid memory of it.

Yusuf stood over the body and took a few deep breaths before kneeling down and using the man’s cloak to clean the blood of his scimitar. He kept his back turned to Nicolò and Alqamar for a while, not sure if he was ready to see any of it.

Then, finally, he forced himself to turn and walk back.

Nicolò still lay prone on the ground with the arrow in his heart.

Alqamar lay close beside him. If she had fallen to her right instead of to her left, she would have crushed him and maybe that was exactly why the gentle mare hadn’t. Dust blew up with her every labored exhale. The wound in her neck was deep and blood was flooding the sand. She was bleeding out. She was suffering. Before Yusuf could muster the courage to end her pain, she let out one final breath and then she was still.

For whatever reason, his mind returned to the Northern wall of Jerusalem and the very first time he had laid eyes on Nicolò. The man had been walking through the bodies and he had stabbed two of them. He hadn’t been soullessly killing survivors, he had been putting men beyond saving out of their misery. Something Yusuf hadn’t even been able to do for a horse.

His scimitar fell from his limp grip into the sand.

He knelt by Nicolò then, his hands hovered over him and he saw that his fingers were trembling.

If Nicolò was truly dead, this should make him happy. But it didn’t. And he told himself it was because he himself clearly hadn’t been cured of the curse yet and if he had to suffer this unnatural existence, so should Nicolò. It was only fair.

So he grabbed the bolt and with a grunt he yanked it out of his chest.

He watched the hole in his chest intently. Nothing happened. It remained a hole, bloodied and awful. Had he been dead too long? Was that what it took? He covered the wound with his hand, pressing his palm into it. He didn’t feel a heartbeat, he didn’t feel Nicolò draw breaths.

“Allah, please,” He muttered, almost ashamed to talk to his god while yearning for the pale soldier to come back to him. “Please, what is this cruelty? I do not understand. I would rather suffer this with him than without him.” It was truly a suffering either way, but he had a clear preference. He blinked because his eyes welled up with tears and he refused to cry. He would not cry over a crusader!

He removed his hand to see and the wound had closed. Before he even really recognized it, Nicolò sucked in a breath and shot upright.

Yusuf sat back and threw his gaze up at the skies. “Thank you, Allah.”

Nicolò coughed and hyperventilated before regaining his composure. “What happened?” He managed in his near-useless Arabic.

Yusuf responded with words Nicolò had taught him. His foreign words for warriors, archer, and battle. Then he said: “Alqamar morta.”

Nicolò looked at him with wide eyes and then his gaze moved beyond him, to where Alqamar lay on her side. His face twisted in pain, as earnest and gutting as when Yusuf had stabbed him, sliced him, beat him, or strangled him.

No, that wasn’t true. No, this seemed to hurt Nicolò more than any of that.

Yusuf watched as the man got up from the dirt, shuffled over to the horse and dropped down to his knees by her head. He combed his long fingers through her mane, like he had done every night for months. He spoke words that sounded kind but broken. He cried.

Yusuf’s was getting mad again. He felt many other things too, but anger was the easiest, so he focused on that.

How could this Christian cry over a horse when they had killed innocent people by the hundreds of thousands? Was an animal worth more to him than a person, if that person was Muslim?

“It’s just a horse!” He yelled at the broken man. “I have seen mothers holding infants with their throats cut like that! How can you weep for a horse but not for the Muslims that you and your people have slaughtered? Are you truly such a beast that you only care for other animals?”

Of course Nicolò had little idea what he was shouting at him. He may recognize the words for mother, infant, horse, and Muslim, or maybe not, because Yusuf spoke quickly and with raw voice.

But when the man tore his gaze away from the horse and met Yusuf’s, the pain and guilt there gauged the anger out of Yusuf’s chest.

Then Yusuf started to cry too and also sank to his knees by Alqamar’s head. He petted her muzzle and mourned her, just like the Christian. Hurt poured out of him.

After some time – too much time – they both rose.

Instead of one horse, they now had five. In terms of simple math, it ought to have been considered a good day. But Yusuf would have traded all five of the thoroughbreds to get back the one, old mare.

Nicolò and Yusuf did not speak a single word to each other.

They each mounted a horse and had the other three in tow behind them. Now that they could gallop at full speed and switch horses to give them a rest from the weight of them on their backs, they would reach Alexandria in a little less than two days. In the port city they would sell the horses. It would be more than enough money to buy them passage on a ship to Tripoli, where Yusuf hoped the women still were. He had recently seen them again in another dream, but hadn’t seen the mosque or any other landmarks, familiar or otherwise, only desert. Just like what the women would see of them, if the strange dreams were mutual.

They rode all through the night and by morning they came across the raided village that the warriors had spoken of. That they themselves had seen the smoke of.

Of the dozens of homes that had made up the settlement, only a handful had remained standing. The rest had been burned down to the ground. If any of the villagers had survived, they had decided to abandon their homes. It was completely deserted.

Two of the houses were still smoldering, even after days. The windows and doors had been haphazardly boarded shut.

The bodies of about fifty men lay in the middle of the dirt road. Vultures picked at them, nonplussed by the two travelers coming through.

Yusuf smelled burning flesh. He knew what had happened here. He had seen it before. Christian knights had gathered the men and older boys in the street. They had slaughtered the defenseless farmers and stable boys. Then they had driven the women and children into their homes, had locked them inside their houses and set them alight to let the innocent people burn alive inside. Some of the Christians would rape the women, young girls, and even young boys before killing them.

How these knights called themselves men of God, Yusuf would never understand.

He looked at Nicolò.

The man rode beside him with his head bowed, fresh tears streaming down his face.

Somehow, he could never imagine Nicolò doing something so vile. The sight seemed to wreck this particular Christian as much as it did Yusuf. But he didn’t know for sure exactly what horrors his companion was guilty of and it ate at him. 

He halted his horse and jumped off. “We shall bury the men,” He said resolutely.

Nicolò didn’t understand his words, but followed his lead.

It took them all day to dig the graves, carry the rotting bodies into them, and cover them with the sand of their home. Yusuf didn’t even stop to say his prayers that day. He couldn’t stop. If he stopped, he would break down, he knew. Why was he spared death when no one else was?

He had half a mind to search each house for the charred bodies and bury them too, but he knew there would be practically nothing left of them, if he could even recognize any human remains between the black and molten furnishings.

Nicolò kneeled, touched his hand to his forehead, his chest and both shoulders and then folded his hands together to begin a prayer for the victims. Usually, he whispered his words, as if he didn’t intend to interrupt Yusuf as he performed Salat five times a day. This time, the Christian let his voice be heard.

Yusuf saw red. He wanted to believe Nicolò’s intentions were pure, but Yusuf did not want the Christian God summoned here. He did not belong here any more than the cruel knights; any more than the mysterious Nicolò.

The God Nicolò spoke to was the reason these people were dead.

He stormed over to him and when he reached him he twisted his fingers into his long hair and pulled him up from his knees.

Knowing he couldn’t kill him, he did the next best thing. He slapped him. Trusting it would humiliate a Christian man as much as it would a Muslim man. When he let go of his hair, Nicolò fell to the dirt and Yusuf resisted the urge to kick him, to take out his anger for hundreds of thousands of invaders on this single Christian.

“These people do not want your prayers! Your God has brought nothing but devastation here! Your prayers are insults to my people! My people!”

“Mi dispiace,” Nicolò whimpered, even though the slap shouldn’t have even hurt him much. “Mi dispiace.”

It sounded like an apology, but Yusuf would not accept it. “Aspettare!” _Wait_ , he ordered and then he walked off, with his hands on his hips.

He screamed, kicked at dirt and rocks, and punched a stone wall until his skin bled and his knuckles cracked. But his hand healed as soon as he stopped.

His curses echoed through the valley the village was located in.

It took him as long as the full sunset lasted to calm down.

He scrubbed his face clear of tears that had fallen after his anger had deflated, and then went back to the graves.

Nicolò was missing. And so was one of the five horses.

He had left.

He was gone.

Yusuf panicked. He sprinted down the street, making the remaining horses nervous. “Nicolò! Nicolò!” He yelled into the darkness. “Nicolò!” He stood there, with his heart racing in his chest, half expecting Nicolò to be playing again and to ride back to him with a smile on his face.

But Nicolò didn’t come back.

* * *

**2020**

“What the fuck! This isn’t fair!” Nile cried out melodramatically. “You said the story was going to get good, but this shit is fucking heartbreaking!” She fixed accusing eyes on Andy.

“Sorry, guess I misjudged how long it would take for him to get to the good part.”

“You can’t leave it like this,” Nile said to Joe. “Seriously, dude, you can’t me leave me hanging like this.”

Joe chuckled. “It’s not like you don’t know how the story turns out.” He squeezed Nicky’s hand, he had been holding it the entire time, and he leaned over to kiss him on top of his head. “It’s late.”

“Noooo,” The young woman drawled. “How on earth did you find each other again? How long did it take?”

“Well, that’s where Andy comes into the story. And Quynh,” He added softly. “In their dreams they saw Nicky and I had parted ways and, of course, they wouldn’t stand for it. So they split up and they used the dreams to find us. Andy came for me and Quynh went to find Nicky. I actually continued to Alexandria, hoping to find Nicky in the city, but I didn’t. So, I sold the horses and sailed to Tripoli as planned. But Andy and Quynh had long moved on from there. Ironically, by the time I arrived in Tripoli, they were in Cairo, close to where Nicky and I had been.” Joe looked to Andy.

“One night we had another dream and I saw this _dumbass_ in front of that mosque Quynh and I had been at months ago. You can imagine how loud and how long I cursed for when I woke up.”

Nile giggled.

“But at the very least it was finally a clear vision of where he was. Before then, Quynh and I couldn’t figure out anything more specific than ‘somewhere in a desert’. Quynh and I initially both headed back to Tripoli. But in another dream, we realized Nicky had sailed to Greece. It was a difficult decision to split up. Quynh and I had been together for thousands of years, but we knew that if we split up, we could cut in half the time it would take to find these stubborn bastards and bring us all together. So we agreed on five years, which wasn’t much time for us. We agreed we would try for five years to find them. And whether we succeeded or not, we would meet each other again in Malta.”

“Why Malta?”

“Well, I’m a practical person and at the time Malta was about midway between Tripoli and Athens. But also Quynh and I had lived there for a few decades about two centuries prior, so we knew the island well. It used to be our getaway island, but these assholes kind of stole it from us.”

“We’ve returned to Malta many times in the past nine hundred years. Because while it is not where we met, it is where we first came together.” Joe stared into Nicky’s eyes.

“And when he says ‘first came together’, he literally means they first _came_ together.”

“What Andy is crudely trying to say is that it is where we first made love.”

Andy shot a look at Nile, pretended to gag and mouthed: _They fucked_.

It drew more laughter from Nile. “But, like, how long did it take?”

“Oh, the very first time only a couple of minutes- ow!” Joe rubbed his side after Nicky had elbowed him.

“Weren’t we going to give her the non-pornographic version?”

“Oh, I’ve changed my mind,” Nile said. “I want all details.”

“Brave,” Andy praised. “Better brush your teeth three times a day. This stuff is going to rot your teeth.”

“Shush, Andy,” Nile said.

Joe guffawed. This kid had some _balls_ on her. Andy’s expression went from insulted to impressed at being told off.

“Continue the story, please?”

“Tomorrow,” Joe said with a grin.

“Oh, you are fucking loving this aren’t you? I hate you.”

“Consider it a lesson in delayed gratification. As someone who will live a couple thousand years, it will be useful for you to learn how to appreciate it.”

“Sounds fucking kinky.”

“You’ve got a wicked mouth on you, young girl.”

Nile flashed a smirk.

Joe rose from the couch and offered Nicky his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

Nile grumbled. “It’s not even that late yet.”

Joe knew, but this had been a rough part of the story. Rough for him to tell and rough for Nicky to hear. He could feel the tension in his lover’s body. Right now, he needed to comfort him, not entertain Nile with the most elaborate bedtime story ever.

He took Nicky upstairs to their bedroom and rather than undressing themselves, like they had the night before, Joe undressed Nicky instead. Slowly and lovingly. Without expecting anything more than the opportunity to glide his fingers over his skin and kiss some choice spots on his body.

“I’m sorry, amore mio. This part took longer to tell than I recalled. Perhaps I should have skipped it altogether.”

“Why?”

“Because I know it hurts you.”

“No more than I deserve.”

Joe cradled his handsome face in his hands and stroked his thumbs over the planes of his cheeks. “Stop that. No more punishment. It is not what you deserve. You were not like those others. You fought in battles but you did not join the raids. I should have known it then, in my heart, the way I know it now. The way I’ve known it for nine hundred years.”

“I was not innocent.”

“Neither was I. You were misled. Your trust was abused. But your heart and mind were open and you learned to see people as people, as equals. You became a better man.”

“Thanks to you,” Nicky said.

“And I became a better man thanks to you. I was hateful, vindictive, and narrow-minded. I was a brute to you.”

“A righteous brute.”

“A brute nonetheless. This ‘incurable romantic’ that I am today, I am because of you. And I am grateful.” He kissed him, languidly, until the sweet lips parted for him and he explored the mouth as if for the first time.

Joe undressed too and they crawled into bed and lay together like they had for centuries and Joe wouldn’t want to change a thing. He told Nicky he loved him in every language he spoke and the man was lulled asleep by his voice before he was even finished.

The next day, Andy needed a break. Her body was sore. Nile managed to land a few good punches the day before, although their boss would loathe to admit it. Joe suggested that Nicky and he train her for the day – “mix things up”. He made it seem like he insisted for his own sake, so Andy could agree to it with her pride intact. Something he had learned from the best: Nicky.

Nile was, for lack of better words, giddy at the prospect, thinking the two men would go easier on her than Andy. That wasn’t entirely true.

She wanted them to train her in sword fighting. Eventually they would. Over the course of their first few centuries together, Nicky and Joe sought out and trained with some of the most skillful swordsmen in the world and they would pass that onto her. Even though it was unlikely a sword would ever be her primary weapon. But for now, they would start with knives; much more practical to bring along.

Nile’s disappointment was clear and she goaded the men into giving her a demonstration in sword fighting at least.

As soon as they started, Joe realized they had been manipulated into it by their clever young recruit, but it just made him smile all the more and he meant to put on a good show.

With practiced moves the scimitar and the longsword clashed again. The ring of the two metals meeting reverberated in his chest. Nicky and Joe still regularly sparred to maintain the muscle memory of handling the swords. But, he had to admit, it was a bit thrilling to have such a wide-eyed and easily impressed audience.

After a short but powerful demonstration that had them both sweating and panting and had Joe feeling a little more _excited_ than he should, it was time to turn their attention back to Nile.

Unfortunately, she revealed herself to be a bit of a natural with a hunting knife and Joe did get stabbed a few times, although not fatally. Nicky fared better, but that was a cheat. He went easy on her. Joe could tell and so could Nile. Which meant she held back as well.

Still, his love abused his bragging rights over dinner when they gave Andy a report on how the training had gone. 

“Are we finally going to get to the _actual good part_ this evening?” Nile asked as she settled herself in the armchair.

Joe chuckled. “Yeah, I think we’re getting there.” He doubted it had really sank in for Nile yet that she was listening to their actual life story and he couldn’t blame her. The Yusuf and Nicolò in the story must be unrecognizable to her, as was the ancient setting. It truly sounded more like a story to her, like one of the many stories Joe would randomly come up with about historical figures – whether he’d met them or not. Always, at the conclusion of those fantastical tales, Nile would ask him, incredulously: “Did that really happen?” And only then would he admit with a laugh: “No”.

But this time it was all real and he wondered how she would feel and react once that would hit home for her.

“So, you were about to meet Andy?”

“Oh, no, not for nearly two years. Alexandria was quickly no longer a safe place to be, so Andy had to travel on foot along the coast to get to Tripoli.”

“Quynh had it worse,” Andy said with a soft tone that only Joe and Nicky – and Booker – knew was not so uncharacteristic for her as Nile would think. “She had to travel all the way around and go through Turkey to get into Europe, following his stubborn ass.” She jutted her chin at the Italian.

“Sorry,” Nicky offered but with a smile. It had been an inside joke between him and Quynh for centuries. Joe could still hear them bickering, even in the fjords of Norway: “Are we going to take the short cut or do you want me to detour through Turkey again?”

“But you stayed in Tripoli all that time, Joe?”

“Yes. At first because I held out hope that I would find the women from my dreams there, somehow. I worked as a hired sword, protecting the farms on the outskirts of the city and every day for Salat al-‘asr, I went to the mosque where I had seen them in my dreams. As months passed, the hope of being found was lost to me, but I remained put because I had nowhere to be. I could not go home, because I felt incredible shame. My brothers in arms were dying, defending their land, and I continued to live. It was a burden. When I left my family to go to war, I had said my farewell, promising to kill as many of the invaders as possible and then kill _one_ _more_ with my dying breath. The honor of such a death evaded me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope it does not disappoint so far!
> 
> I came across a comment on a YT fanvid of JoexNicky, saying that Nicky has no character at all other than what Joe GIVES him in The SpeechTM. I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but oh my God, how can people be that dense? The movie depicts him as kind through many little acts, I thought it was very well done. My favorite is probably when he tells Nile that she should get some rest and he walks her over to the bed (instead of just pointing to the right and saying: "it's right over there", because the beds. are. right. there) lol. 
> 
> So, question of the day, I guess: What's your favorite act of kindness from Nicky in the movie? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split the story into 7 chapters, here is number 3! I hope you will enjoy!

**1101**

Yusuf crossed through the busy market at the port of Tripoli. It was late in the afternoon and soon he would make his way to the mosque to pray. It was a habit now and the sole thing that brought him comfort.

The farmers paid him a wheel of goat cheese for the trouble that had transpired that midnight. Looters from the South had come. Not all evil men were Christians. The shepherd dog had alerted Yusuf to the danger. The bells of the goats rang nervously as they skittered through the field. Eleven men had come to raid the farm. They would steal goats, clothes, food from the larder, and would rape the wife. Yusuf stopped them before they set foot in the house.

Most were slain easily. His scimitar cut through their flesh like a knife through butter at midday. But one had managed to cleave his sword into Yusuf’s side. His pride convinced him it was by sheer luck alone. He fought through the pain as the wound mended and the longer the fight continued, the more his attacker became confused and then terrified. Yusuf should have bled out from the wound, but instead he charged at him ferociously and soon the man’s head rolled into the dirt.

Together with the farmer they stacked the bodies beyond the perimeter of the paddock and set the corpses on fire. Fires like these were common in the hills there. Every other week or so, Yusuf would spot one in the distance as he kept his vigil over goats and men.

In the light of the flames, the farmer studied the tear in Yusuf’s bloodstained tunic, large enough for the fabric to hang loose and give view of his torso. His skin was red but healed.

The man was confused and that same hint of terror that Yusuf had just observed in his opponent, settled in the eyes of the farmer as well.

He was paid well for his efforts, and left before gratitude would make way for more distrust.

At the market Yusuf traded the cheese bit by bit. For some bread, a new tunic, a new whetstone to keep his blade sharp. The last of the cheese he brought to the docks where two fishermen were selling their fresh catch. They sailed out with their nets every dawn and every midday. They could because they did not need to pray then. They were Italians.

Yusuf had heard their language float through the market over a year ago, shortly after he had arrived in the city, at a time when he still prayed at the mosque five times a day, expecting to see the women there. With wild eyes he had chased after the sound and had found the two men arguing with one another as they struggled to untangle their net.

This was Nicolò’s language, he recognized. He had hated every single word of it Nicolò had spoken when they had traveled through the desert together, but all of a sudden, after not hearing it for months, it was a joy to hear.

“What language do you speak?” Yusuf had demanded.

“Ligurian.”

“Where are you from?”

“Genoa.”

It didn’t sound familiar. “Where is that?”

“North of the sea. Italy.” The man’s Arabic was lacking but serviceable.

“Italy.” Yusuf wondered if Nicolò had gone back there. He must have.

An emptiness expanded in him violently and he couldn’t explain it. That was exactly what he wanted, was it not? For the Christians to go back to where they came from? That or crawl into a hole and die.

He went to see the fishermen every single day and offered to work for them in exchange for them teaching him this barbaric language.

So he spent his nights watching the hills for raiders and his days cleaning out fish guts, being paid with cheese and words. It was a curious drive, to learn the language he resented. The language of a man he resented. Yusuf couldn’t pinpoint if he was doing it for pride or for punishment. Some days it was the one, some days it was the other.

He was a quick study, as he had been his entire life, in every regard, and soon he knew the language well enough to eavesdrop on the fishermen as they talked about their homeland, reminiscing about the time they had spent as boys, jumping off sheer cliffs into turquoise water. Over the course of their lives they had moved further down, from Naples to Palermo until they crossed the Mediterranean to Tunis and ended up in Tripoli.

They were not the only foreigners in the city. ‘The people of Tripoli’ – if there even still was such a thing – were mixed into an uneasy truce. The Arabs bought their fish from the Arabic fishermen. The foreigners bought their fish from the Italians. They let each other be, most of the time.

When Yusuf wasn’t working, he was praying, or spending time in the pleasurable company of women and sometimes men when the mood struck him. Once with a man with a nose just like Nicolò. But whilst kissing him he realized the nose looked ugly on this man’s face. So he hadn’t looked at it again, pushing his down and fucking into him from behind.

He traded the last of his cheese for fish the men steamed in a tin right at the docks, as soon as the fish had come out of the net.

“We didn’t see you today, we had to clean all fish ourselves,” One of the men complained in his native tongue, knowing Yusuf now spoke it well. “Will you help us tomorrow or do you think we have nothing left to teach you?”

“Can you teach me how to write your words?”

“No. We cannot write or read ourselves.” He grinned.

“Then you, indeed, have nothing left to teach me. But thank you. For the words… and for the fish.”

Yusuf had to Tripoli, now that he had given one of the farmers he regularly worked for reason to be suspicious of him.

He ate the fish on the way to the mosque. After his prayers, he decided he would leave the city at nightfall, after Salat al-maghrib.

Yusuf stood outside the mosque, adjusting his boots that he had just slipped back into. When he looked up, he froze. The way he froze when he had first seen a dead body.

Through the crowd that bustled back and forth in front of him, he spotted her, one of the women from his dreams. He’d recognize her face anywhere, not only because she was paler than anyone he had ever seen, paler even than Nicolò.

He rushed towards her, bumping into people as he did. He saw nothing and no one but her. When he reached her, he fell to his knees in front of her. It was sacrilegious, for a Muslim to kneel in front of a white woman, but he had no strength to stand. He was too shocked. She was real. She was here.

The display attracted attention that displeased her. She twisted her fingers into his tunic and hoisted him up. She was more powerful than many of the men Yusuf had fought.

Standing face to face, her light eyes peered into his and a small smirk appeared as she appraised him.

“We finally meet,” She said, in Arabic as smooth as any native speaker. “Yusuf.”

His eyes widened. “How do you know my name?”

“Because he said it.”

“He? Allah?”

She shook her head and chuckled. “No. Nicolò.”

“You’ve met Nicolò?” He sounded so dumb, like a child.

“I heard you say each other’s names in the dreams.”

“The dreams. You have them too. You dreamt of us as we dreamt of you?”

“I will answer all of your questions on the road.” With that, she walked away.

Yusuf followed. “The road? The road to where?”

“To Sfax.”

Sfax? In Tunisia, he knew. Another port city on the Mediterranean. “Why?”

“I know a sailor there. He owes me. He will take us to Malta. Unless you have money, then we can buy our way onto a ship here.” She spoke as if she already knew the answer and was mocking him.

“No, no money.” Then he thought to ask: “What’s in Malta?”

“Not ‘what’, ‘who’.”

“Who?” He amended.

“Nicolò.” He halted, but only for a heartbeat and then he raced after her.

The woman did not make false promises. She answered all of his questions, although sometimes, disappointingly, the answer was “I don’t know”. Like how it was possible he and Nicolò couldn’t die and how they could end it. And why them? And why they dreamed of her and the other woman.

But to many other questions, she did have answers. Starting with her name: Andromache. But he could call her Andréa. And she was just like him and Nicolò: immortal. She was thousands of years old, the news shocked him and yet he did not disbelieve her. Her travel companion was named Quynh, another immortal warrior, and she had gone to find Nicolò, who they had seen pass through Athens in a dream.

She explained Yusuf didn’t dream of Nicolò and Nicolò didn’t dream of him because they had already met. For the same reason, Andréa would no longer appear in his dreams now.

He didn’t tell her it wasn’t entirely true that he did not dream of Nicolò, for he did. But he understood that she meant a different kind of dream. His dreams of Nicolò were just shards of memories, not the visions he had had of the women.

On the third night, she told him that they were not immortal for eternity. There had been another, a dark skinned man, darker even than Yusuf. He had fought alongside Andréa and Quynh for over two thousand years before he fell during battle and could no longer get up. He bled out in the grass of a continent on the other side of the world. Someday, suddenly, the wounds wouldn’t heal, without warning.

She told him this because he had been careless, using death as a strategy to gain the surprise element on bandits who tried to rob them, even though the two spoke the truth when they said they had nothing for them to steal.

Andréa theorized that it had something to do with age and that Yusuf was probably too young – much too young – to die yet, but she warned him still.

“And now there is the four of us…” Yusuf muttered to the flames of their campfire.

“Yes.”

“To what purpose?”

“You can decide that for yourself. But Quynh and I have chosen the purpose of saving as many people as we can, to share this gift of life as fairly as is possible.”

“Is it a gift?” He challenged.

“I choose to believe so.”

“You _decide_ , you _choose_ ,” He repeated the key words she had used with disdain. “It is not right. We should not be in charge. It ought to be up to Allah. Men do not have the selflessness, nor the wisdom to ‘decide’ and to ‘choose’ their fate.”

“Maybe men don’t. But women do.”

Yusuf’s face went red at the insult but when he caught her smirk his anger was deflated and he shook his head at her.

After a few months of constant traveling, they reached Sfax and Andréa found the sailor who owed her. He was reluctant, but agreed to sail them to Malta, asking her to give him a fortnight to gather merchandise to sell there, to make the trip worth it for him. Andréa granted him that.

In the meantime, they slept in an inn that they paid for by working long days in the shipyard.

Malta was beautiful and peaceful. A constant wind swept over the island, that cooled Yusuf’s skin even when the sun was at the highest point. The land smelled of grass and fruits that were exotic to him.

Andréa and Quynh had built themselves a house on the island of Malta, overlooking Mellieha Bay in the North. It was a small house, more like a cabin, built from stones they had carried up from the rocky shore of the bay. On the surrounding land they grew fruits and vegetables to live off of. The plants had grown massive and thrived even in the absence of the caretakers. In the forests they hunted for foul.

The cabin was remote enough that it had been left undisturbed in the centuries that it had been abandoned.

Andréa used many different words to describe the place, words that she assured all meant the same thing: heaven, Eden, Valhalla, or ’Jannah’ as Yusuf would know it.

It was, indeed paradise.

It had taken the two women years to build, but Andréa spoke of years the way Yusuf spoke of days: fleeting, summarizing events in short sentences or single words. Like how she said she and Quynh battled through Mongolia for two decades before traveling to India.

It was all so off-hand. It was disorienting. In short conversations over simple meals she described centuries’ worth of living to him like that.

Yusuf didn’t have a lot of questions left. But one repeated itself every day:

“Where is Nicolò?”

Andréa explained to him again and again that Quynh had five years to find him and bring him to Malta. It wasn’t an easy task. Only three years had passed. He had to patient.

Then the other question that remained: “What if she comes back in two years without him?”

“Then we shall go find him, together.”

Every morning he asked her if she had dreamed of Nicolò. And she asked him if he had dreamed of Quynh. Rarely they could answer each other “yes”, but when they did, they could spend all day talking about what they had seen, taking comfort in it. Yusuf would describe to Andréa Quynh’s smile as she rode a horse as fast as it could through a sudden rainstorm. And Andréa would tell him she saw Nicolò use a knife to carve a horse figurine out of a piece of firewood. 

One night, Andréa surprised him with a question: “Do you still hate him?”

Yusuf contemplated his answer, as it was not a simple one. “Since he and I parted, every day I’ve wondered if I have ever even hated _him_ at all.”

“And?”

“I still don’t know. I want to hate him, for he is one of them and I hate _them_. I learned the tongue so perhaps I could finally understand my memories of him. What he said in his prayers. What he said to me. Mostly hoping that he had said something vile to me without my knowing, so I can at least hate him for that. But I don’t recall his words and it nags at me. Maybe that is all there is left to hate. For I get the sense he is not an evil man, just a fool.”

She smiled like she knew a secret. “So you won’t try to kill him again as soon as you lay your eyes on him?”

He grinned. “I make no promises.”

* * *

**1103**

The dialect in Malta was different from what the fishermen had taught him, so Yusuf studied that too. With the prospect of thousands of years of living ahead of him, he wanted to speak and read as many languages as possible.

In the cabin Andréa and Quynh had a collection of books and Yusuf reads the Arabic, Greek, Spanish, French, and Italian ones greedily as his language skills evolved.

The life he lived on Malta was very different from the life he had once had in Cairo or in Tripoli. Sometimes he’d feel guilty, for being so lazy, but Andréa put him at ease. It was okay to rest for a moment – and for Andréa, ‘a moment’ could last as long as a decade – for he had a long life of grueling work ahead of him still if he _decided_ to share in her and Quynh’s purpose; to protect as many innocent lives as possible.

He enjoyed it. He slept a lot, which also meant he dreamed a lot, giving more opportunity for the visions of Quynh to come to him. He started seeing Nicolò’s face in those visions. They were together. She had found him.

Yusuf very nearly became addicted to sleep then.

But when he was being _too lazy_ , Andréa challenged him to sparring sessions that could last from sunrise to sunset. Pausing only long often enough and long enough to let him pray.

Andréa was an impressive fighter. Terrifyingly so. She wielded her axe in a way Yusuf could not defend himself against. Yusuf had to be mindful not to grow envious, for that would be ill vanity. He ought to only be grateful, because every time he trained with her, he became a better warrior himself.

It was one of the lazy days again. Yusuf was seated under a tree, eating one of the pomegranates he had gotten at the market in exchange for the rabbit he had ensnared. Andréa was roaming the island. She did that. Sometimes, she would be gone for days. He had learned not to worry about her.

He heard the footfall of hooves coming up the dirt path along the cliff. If was the path he walked nearly every single day, to get to the market on the Southern end of the bay. But no one ever came up to visit the cabin. He had a feeling it was because Andréa was so intimidating, no one would dare.

Yusuf looked up and his mouth parched at the sight of a pale rider seated on a pale horse. It was like Yusuf was pulled back through the veil of time and he was looking at Nicolò seated securely on Alqamar’s back.

This horse was not Alqamar.

But this rider… this rider was Nicolò.

Yusuf scrambled up to his feet, using the trunk of the olive tree for support. He blinked and blinked again. Bright eyes met his, eyes the same color as the clear water of the bay. He was still thin. Still had that scraggly, pathetic beard that failed to hide the mole. His hair was longer now, half of it was tied in a knot at the back of his head, the rest rested on his shoulders.

Also resting on his shoulder was the chin of the other woman, Quynh. She was half asleep, looking impossibly comfortable seated behind Nicolò, with her arms loosely around his waist.

There it was again: envy. Yusuf could not squash it quite so easily this time. Harder still was to explain why he even felt that way.

The horse came to a stop in front of the cabin and Quynh elegantly slid off the saddle. She strutted towards him with confidence, not perturbed in the least that he was ignoring her in favor of staring at the man, still in the saddle to which the familiar longsword was strapped.

He couldn’t ignore her any longer when he was pulled into an unexpected hug. She hugged him like they were family and, he supposed, they were, or they would be anyway. Time had a way of accomplishing that and time was something they would have no shortage of.

She disentangled herself and playfully smacked his cheek. “Little brother,” She called him. Her eyes were full of mirth. Then she turned around and gestured at Nicolò. “As I understand it, you two have already met. Can you manage or do you to need a chaperone? I would like to go find Andréa.”

“She’s…” Where was she? He had no idea. “She’s not around.”

“I know her as well as I know myself. I’ll find her. If you kill each other, at least clean up the mess afterwards.” With that, she was off.

Nicolò swung his leg over and dismounted the horse. He eyed Yusuf with appropriate distrust, but not fear.

Yusuf stared at him, waiting for clarity. Waiting to be mad, like he was when he had last seen the man. But there was nothing. It was like a blank slate. “Why didn’t you wait? I told you to wait.”

Nicolò raised his eyebrows at the perfect Ligurian that was spoken to him. “It was as you said, I did not belong. I had no right to be there.”

“Where did you go?”

“Home.”

If he had been home, why did he agree to come with Quynh to Malta? Wouldn’t he have rather stayed home? He asked as much.

“I did not belong there anymore either.” There was an unfathomable sadness to his tone.

Yusuf nodded and he said simply, wanting to comfort: “We both belong here now.”

There was no hate between Yusuf and Nicolò, but no affection either.

Peace without friendship.

As Andréa had said, as sure as Yusuf’s dreams of her had stopped, so did cease his dreams of Quynh, now that they had met. But his dreams of Nicolò only intensified. He saw his face all day, every day and he saw his face all night, every night. It was not unwelcome.

Even though they spoke the same language now, they didn’t talk much. Odd, since they had been very talkative in the desert, when they didn’t understand a word the other was saying. It was like they were scared now, scared of opening up to each other. Words made a man vulnerable.

Yet they were drawn to each other’s company. Andréa and Quynh slept in the cabin and Nicolò and Yusuf slept under the stars. Every sunrise, they would train atop the cliffs. Taking off their tunics so as not to tear or stain the cloth as they were as ruthless as they were outside of Jerusalem, killing each other unscrupulously, in spite of what Andréa had told him; that they _could_ die. 

“He’s not much of a fighter,” Quynh had observed only a few days after arriving in Malta with Nicolò, telling a tale of how she had to fight off two dozen bandits by herself because Nicolò had perished early in the raid.

“He managed to kill me a couple of times.” Yusuf was defending his own honor more so than Nicolò’s.

She laughed heartedly. “Maybe you both need to train, then.”

They did. Yusuf was at an advantage, having spent a year under the tutelage of the mighty Andromache. He killed Nicolò many times and every time the man was quick to heal and get back up on his feet.

But after a few weeks, he didn’t want to kill him anymore. He still fought to win, but not to kill, stopping himself short of delivering the fatal blow. Instead of using their training sessions to prove his dominance, he actually bothered to help the other fighter improve. Nicolò took note of the switch but didn’t mention it.

Then, after only a few months, Yusuf was losing his advantage as Nicolò seemed to gain the ability to predict Yusuf’s every move. The pale man was getting stronger too, training with Yusuf and eating the good food of Malta. He remained a slender man, but his muscles became toned. His naked torso started to become a distraction, causing Yusuf to lose even more of his advantage, until, more often than not, it was Yusuf who ended up on his back with his sort out of reach, not Nicolò. Because his gaze followed a drop of sweat down his abdomen and he didn’t see the long blade coming his way.

“Men,” Andréa oftentimes muttered, like a disapproving but resigned mother.

In the afternoons, Nicolò devoured the books just like Yusuf had, but only the Italian ones as it was the only language he spoke.

Yusuf stole moments watching him read. He’d lay them open on the table top or in the grass between his legs and he’d hunch over the pages, supporting his head in his hand. He was a slow reader, Yusuf could tell. It took him a long time before he would turn the page. Perhaps he couldn’t read very well. But it was evident he was enthralled by the stories. And the more he read, the faster he became at flipping the pages.

Usually, he was so swept up in the stories that he forgot about reality and would forget to eat whenever Andréa and Quynh were not around for lunch or dinner.

Yusuf would bring him pieces him fruit from the orchard, putting it on the table next to his book with a single word: “Eat”.

Yusuf himself had tired of reading and had taken to drawing instead. He used to draw a lot, when he was a young boy and even made some money with it, petty coins he was given by family and friends and neighbors, more as an encouragement. Like learning languages, it was a skill Yusuf wanted to hone. He started scouring the razor sharp shores for mussels for the sole purpose of trading them at the market for parchment and charcoal. Oftentimes, Nicolò helped him collect basketsful of them, never speaking a single word.

He drew the cliffs, the old olive tree, the horse Nicolò and Quynh had arrived on months prior, Andréa, and Quynh… Then he started drawing Nicolò. Yusuf would almost describe it as accidental. He’d been drawing a face that looked like no one in particular yet, until with an absentminded movement, he pressed the tip of the charcoal to the paper and then lifted it up and he had created a mole on the jaw of the face. He drew his knees up higher, bringing the wooden board on which the parchment lay closer to his chest, hiding his work. If he were caught, he’d be mortified. Andréa would probably be the one to make it the most embarrassing ordeal possible.

But Andréa nor Quynh was around. They had left that morning to go swim in the bay, as they did often and he did not expect them back until nighttime, as they’d usually wander down the shore and disappear to places of the island Yusuf had not discovered yet.

Nicolò was caring for the horse the way he had cared for Alqamar. He brushed her sandy coat, trailing every move of the comb with his palm to smooth away nervous shudders until the animal relaxed and the white around her eyes disappeared. With her ears perked up, she sometimes folded her neck to look back at her caretaker, but other than that she stood by calmly.

Yusuf’s gaze trailed the long, elegant lines of Nicolò’s body. His daily attire consisted of leather pants, laced in the front, and a white tunic that became see-through whenever the sun was behind him, with a neck line that dipped low, exposing a hairless chest. It seemed only logical that the man who could barely grow a beard, could grow no chest hair at all.

Every time Yusuf had considered mocking him for it, the joke had died in his throat.

He continued his drawing, not copying the sight in front of him, but instead drawing him from memory. Drawing him hunched over a book, brows furrowed in concentration. When he was done, Yusuf stared at it for a moment and then he tore the parchment several times and crumbled up the shreds.

“No good?” Nicolò was looking at him, his head slightly tilted.

“Hn.”

Exchanges like that were about the extent of their conversations.

One day Nicolò returned from the market on horseback with a razor he had earned by working for the local blacksmith. He asked Quynh for help, since they didn’t have a mirror.

But Quynh called Yusuf over.

The Muslim frowned and threaded his fingers through his black beard. “Does it look to you like I am an expert at shaving?” All he’d done since his early twenties was trim the length with a sharp knife. In spite of his protests, he was about to get up from his seat under the tree, when Nicolò shrugged and said he’d do it himself anyway and he disappeared into the cabin.

Yusuf leaned back.

When Nicolò came back outside, his face was clean shaven and Yusuf didn’t think he’d like the look on any man, but instead he enjoyed the sight of it very much, even enjoyed how much more prominent the dark spot on his jaw was. He couldn’t resist the urge to draw him again and this time he didn’t tear it up afterwards.

Nicolò shaved every day and some days Yusuf watched.

A few weeks later, Quynh cut everyone’s hair, including her own. Just a little trim off her black locks, Andréa’s dark hair, and Yusuf’s tight curls. Nicky’s hair she shortened to about finger length in the front and shorter in the back. Now he didn’t have to keep it tied in a knot or ponytail all the time to keep it out of the way and the hair moved with the wind and with him.

At that point, Nicolò had become about the only thing Yusuf would draw, but he hid it well from everyone.

Andréa and Quynh went on an excursion to Comino, a small island – smaller even than Malta – a few miles North. They’d row a small boat there and camp out for a few weeks. Nicolò and Yusuf were not invited to come along.

Without having the women around to talk to. They finally started to talk to each other.

Yusuf started it, with an observation he had made a while ago: “You don’t pray anymore.” He joined him at the table in the cabin.

Nicolò looked up from his book, caught off-guard by the question. “No.”

“Why did you stop?”

Nicolò was silent for so long that Yusuf figured he wasn’t going to answer him. But he did. “I prayed to God for guidance and for forgiveness. But I have come to realize that I have been led astray. And the things I need forgiveness for, are the things I’ve done in His name. If I were to speak to God now, it would be words of anger. I have questions to which there is no answer that will console me, so I wish not to know them.”

Yusuf’s heart stilled in his chest.

He continued: “Before I came here, the Holy Bible was the only book I’ve ever read. I’ve memorized the words, have trusted preachers to interpret them for me, and have lived by them. I have punished and have been punished; justified and accepted both as righteous, with the words of the church ringing as true in my heart. Words that were supposed to be from God Himself. But I am no longer sure. Those words have inspired too much hurt. I have seen too much of it with my own eyes. Hurt carried out by _men_. Men like me. When I recite the words in my head now, they do not sound like the words of God, of any God. They sound like the words of men; unwise, violent, petty, and selfish,” Nicolò spat the words. He took a deep breath and his tone became one of hopelessness as he continued:

“If they are not but the words of men, then why did God let them persist? Why did he not offer argument and reason?… And if they are the words of God after all, then he is as flawed as any cruel fool I’ve met. Either way, I do not trust them. I do not pray, because I can only pray the way the Bible has taught me. And I do not trust it.”

Bright eyes looked at Yusuf, a depth of pain under the watery surface. “I would drop to my knees before you and beg _you_ for forgiveness if I was foolish enough to think I’d be worthy of it. There is no penance that will ever absolve me of my true sins. I accept it so. And I would think that to be the reason why my body is not allowed to perish; to suffer this guilt without the limitation of a natural death, if not for the fact that you, Andromache, and Quynh share this fate, and I would not presume any of you to have done such wrong as to deserve this eternal guilt like I do.”

He fell silent just after his voice cracked.

Yusuf scraped his throat. He did not trust his voice as he was wrought with emotions, but he dared to speak anyway. “Ask me,” He said.

Nicolò merely blinked.

“Ask me for forgiveness,” He said, stronger this time.

Nicolò held his gaze for several heartbeats and then slid off the chair he had occupied and onto his knees in front of Yusuf, with his broad shoulders slumped. “I cannot express the grief I feel for the sorrow inflicted on your people. I have been a part of something evil and your rage is righteous. I swear to you, I touched no one, with my hands nor with my swords, unless they came for me on the battlefield. But I know I killed innocent men regardless. If it eases you in any way to punish me however you see fit, for as long as we live, I will suffer it in silence.”

The both sucked in a breath but for different reasons.

“I would not ask for your forgiveness, I would beg for it. I would grovel for it. If I thought I had the right. If you were to ever grant forgiveness, I promise you I would never mistake it to mean that I am deserving of your forgiveness, only that it means that which I already know to be true; that you are a good man, Yusuf Al-Kaysani.”

Yusuf’s throat felt constricted and his eyes welled up. Every time he blinked, he saw flashes of the horrors that Nicolò referenced. But Nicolò, too, was a good man. Yusuf felt it in his heart. If that kindness that he saw in those bright eyes would be cherished as it ought to be, rather than cut it out of him to leave jagged edges with which to wound others, he would be a better man than any man Yusuf had ever met. He put a hand on Nicolò’s shoulder, the same shoulder he had cleaved his scimitar into, years ago, outside of Jerusalem. It was like the sheer touch brushed a weight off the man. With a sob he dipped his head further down and bowed his back. His forehead was nearly against Yusuf’s knee. Through his palm he could feel the man tremble.

He spoke solemnly. “I forgive you.”

Nicolò collapsed. He rested his head against Yusuf’s knee and twisted his fingers into his trousers. He wept. The sound was heartbreaking.

Yusuf did the only thing he could, the only thing he wished to do. He petted his hand through Nicolò’s fine hair, over and over. There was only one thing that made the man stop crying. When Yusuf eventually asked: “Will you forgive me?”

He reared his head up, aiming his confusion up at him. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Yusuf remembered bashing his face in with a rock as he slept. He remembered making him walk through the deserts as his feet bled and blistered while Yusuf rode a horse. He remembered shouting at him when he mourned Alqamar’s death. He remembered grabbing his hair and slapping him. He didn’t say any of that, because he knew Nicolò remembered all that too. “Please… Forgive me.”

Bright eyes stared at him. The man whispered: “Of course.”

* * *

Yusuf continued to pray as he had since he was seven years old, although he found less and less solace through prayer. Allah would ask him to hate Nicolò with as much dedication as the sun burned, as the waves crashed, as the wind moved the dunes through the desert. This was not something Yusuf could do. There was truly no hate left for Nicolò. If he had brought any of it with him to Malta, then Nicolò’s tears that night had washed the last of it into the Mediterranean.

After Salat al-fajr, Nicolò and Yusuf trained on the cliffs as they had every day for close to a year. They hadn’t killed each other for weeks, not even when there had been the opportunity to do so. When Nicolò’s arms tired of raising the heavy sword high enough, or when Yusuf’s guard was down watching the color of Nicolò’s eyes change with the sunlight.

He had drawn the man so much that he was curious to try and paint him. But the mere thought of trying to pin down the eye color infuriated him because the color was wholly elusive.

That kind of thinking was not beneficial during a sword fight.

On the edge of a cliff.

Nicolò swung his sword powerfully enough to hit the scimitar out of his limp grip as they had been dancing around each other, and at the exact same moment the sword landed on the rocks, Yusuf’s left foot stepped where there was no rock at all. His heart skipped a beat, his eyes widened. He fell backwards. He reached out to Nicolò as the man reached out to him but it was all too late.

The fall into the water did not kill him. It wouldn’t have killed him even if he wasn’t immortal. But the terrible, insufferable shame of it, to have lost his footing like that, to have been so completely unaware of his surroundings as he wondered how to mix green, blue and grey together to approximate the beauty of Nicolò’s bright eyes…

Oh and the other thing… Yusuf couldn’t swim.

Just as Yusuf came up, gasping for breath, Nicolò’s feet broke the surface and he sank next to him until he swam up in water that churned white and frothed.

Yusuf flailed his hands around.

“Yusuf! Calm down!”

He coughed when he got a mouthful of water. He couldn’t die, but he _could_ drown over and over until his body would eventually be washed to shore and the thought terrified him.

“Yusuf, calm down. Calm down!”

He didn’t, not until a hand cupped the back of his head, tilting his face up and another hand touched him, intimately, at the small of his back, bringing his hips closer to the surface. He was gently coaxed to lay on his back. He floated on the waves, with the Italian next to him. With every breath he took, he calmed down further.

“I’m sorry, Yusuf, I didn’t think you would step back further.” Then Nicolò moved and he hooked an arm under Yusuf’s, encircling his chest and he swam to shore with Yusuf in tow, doing little more than uselessly kicking his legs. When they were close to a sandy beach at the bottom of the cliff, the man said: “You can stand here.”

Yusuf righted himself in the water and his feet found the loose sand. When he stood up, the waves reached no higher than his midriff and Nicolò’s hands disappeared from his body. “How did you know I can’t swim?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t even think. I just jumped in after you.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They waded out of the water and Yusuf looked up at the wall of the sheer cliff. They would either have to risk climbing it, or walk hallway around the bay to where the beach gently sloped up.

Without a word they decided they would walk. They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. Yusuf snuck glances at the man and committed the sight of his handsome profile to the backdrop of the Malta coastline to memory, so he could draw it later. He spotted a little smirk on his lips. He wanted to draw that too, but first, he wanted to know why he was even smirking at all.

“Do you have valid reason to look as smug as you do?”

“Well, I won our fight, didn’t I?”

“Oh, is that what you think?”

“Hmhm.”

“Fight’s not over though.” Before Nicolò could process the words that were growled at him he was pushed down into the sand.

The man looked worried first, worried that they were really fighting, like how they used to. But he caught Yusuf’s self-satisfied grin and he tackled the Muslim. They wrestled on the beach, sand sticking to their wet skin and getting into their hair and at one point Yusuf got a mouthful of it too. The feel of their bodies moving together was made coarse by the sand and that was probably for the best, or surely Yusuf would have lost his focus again.

Grunts of effort evolved into bouts of laughter.

The last time – and the only time – Yusuf had heard Nicolò laugh, it had made him angry. Now the sound made him happy and made him want more of it. So wrestling became more pinching and tickling than anything else. And this was how Yusuf secured victory, when he found a particularly ticklish spot at the slimmest part of Nicolò’s waist. It had the man curl in on himself and become breathless and defenseless with laughter.

“Boys!”

The two of them froze and looked up to the top of the cliff.

Andréa and Quynh stood at the edge, peering over, having finally returned from Comino. Andréa had been the one to call, because of course it had been. Both Nicolò and Yusuf had recognized the exasperated, motherly tone.

“Honestly,” Andréa said to the other woman. “I can’t believe we have to spend millennia with _boys_.”

“I heard that!” Yusuf shouted up.

“You were supposed to!”

Yusuf smiled up at her, then down at Nicolò.

Nicolò lay under him, giggling. His eyes squinted so much by his wide smile that the color of his eyes became irrelevant, only their sparkle mattered.

Something cracked open inside Yusuf then. He could feel it. A breath escaped him. He composed himself and held out his hand to help the other get up.

The two men washed the sand off their bodies in the shallows and then continued their trek back to the cabin. By the time they got back there, the sun had dried their skin, hair, and the pants they wore, and Andréa and Quynh had prepared them lunch and had fetched their swords for them.

“Did you enjoy Comino?”

“You mean did we enjoy being away from you? Yes, very much so, yes.”

Quynh swatted her mildly. “That’s actually what we should talk about. Andréa and I are thinking about leaving Malta for a while.”

“Where would you go?”

“To Scandanavia. We had been fighting there in 1099 when you appeared in our dreams. There was unrest between the Swedes and the Norwegians and in the winter there was a siege.”

“We left things unfinished. We want to go back to make sure peace has returned to the region,” Andréa continued.

“When would you return?”

“We were thinking 1200.”

“That’s almost a hundred years from now!” Yusuf exclaimed.

“Well, we like to round off.” Andréa shrugged.

“We will go with you.”

The oldest of the two women laughed at Nicolò’s suggestion. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve trained with you both and I know you are not ready. You will only endanger us if you fall and heal for others to see. You need more time. And there is plenty of _time_.”

There was no arguing with Andréa. Not because her logic was always sound, but because she was stubborn as a mule. So it would be as she willed it. She and Quynh would leave in a fortnight and they would return to the bay of Mellieha exactly at the turn of the century. They urged Yusuf and Nicolò to train more and not just learn how to fight against each other, but how to fight with each other.

“And build your own damn house,” Andréa had added with a wink. 

When the day came, Yusuf and Nicolò accompanied the women to the town South of the bay, to the port from where they would sail to the mainland of Italy. They wanted to say proper goodbyes. They hadn’t known each other for very long yet, but there was an undeniable connection.

Nicolò and Quynh walked up front, with Yusuf and Andréa trailing behind them. Both pairs lost in quiet conversation. Since Andréa had been the one to find Yusuf in Tripoli and Quynh had been the one to find Nicolò in Rome, they typically paired up like this.

Yusuf dreaded being without her. She had a way of calming him and grounding him in this new and odd existence. Merely seeing her, seeing her strength, seeing her determination, was enough to put him at ease. Simple words from her answered questions that he didn’t even think to ask.

They wouldn’t see each other for nearly a hundred years, unless they would return early –if all was at peace in Scandinavia they would go elsewhere, anywhere where their helping hand was needed. Yusuf asked them to return early instead, if there was no war left in Scandanavia, but Quynh told him they couldn’t. They couldn’t spend too much time, too close together, on the island. The people would notice they were ageless. Yusuf and Nicolò would have to leave in a few years too.

So the plan to meet in 1200 remained firm.

There was something Yusuf was struggling with. Something he wanted her advice on before it was too late. But he was too scared to ask.

All morning as they walked the path to the town, he contemplated his phrasing. Eventually, in spite of all of his careful consideration, it just slipped out of him in the most foolish way possible.

Looking at how the leather pants fit over the curve of his ass. Looking at how the linen of his tunic was pulled tight around his body by the sea breeze as if the wind was _touching_ him. Looking at the way the hair at the nape of his neck was dark and wet and stuck to his skin, which Yusuf knew to mean he was just sweaty enough to smell fantastic, not sweaty enough to stink. Looking at the way he moved his arms as he talked to Quynh – _always_ moving his arms as he spoke, _everything_ Nicolò spoke about he felt passionate enough about to warrant large hand gestures. 

Looking at Nicolò, Yusuf blurted: “Is he not the most beautiful man there is?” His face became hot instantly and he did not dare to glance sideways at Andromache. He didn’t have to, to know she was grinning.

“Yusuf, I am thousands of years old. I have walked every continent. I can assure you, there have been, there are, and there will be more beautiful men than him.”

The dismissal was offensive to Yusuf and he found the courage to glare at her but was disarmed by her kind expression and her placating words:

“But he is very beautiful. Nice ass.”

He ignored her crude remark, as profoundly true as it was. “So it is not odd for me to appreciate the sight of him? I need not search the meaning of that?”

“You need not search because it is obvious. You are in love with him.”

Yusuf tensed and he studied the two people in front of them to make sure they had not overheard. The two continued to walk and talk as they had. He hissed: “You are wrong.”

“Oh, _little brother_ ,” She let out a chuckle. “I am never wrong.”

He wasn’t quite sure why he was getting as heated as he was. He had a question. He wanted an answer. Andréa had given him one. It just wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for. It wasn’t the answer he had been hoping to be left alone with on Malta. Alone with Nicolò.

“Are you offended because he is a man? Would Allah take offense?”

“I’ve lain with men before. I have appreciated and enjoyed their beauty without _loving_ them. Allah does not condemn men for that.”

“But he wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if you were to be devoted to another man.”

“I am not devoted to Nicolò.”

“Not yet.”

“You are an infuriating women.”

She laughed and did not disagree.

“I cannot fathom why I worried about missing you. I think it might only be Quynh’s absence that I dread.” He spoke the words in a tone he knew she would recognize to be facetious. He would miss her. In spite of the fact that she was very infuriating. That had been no lie.

At port they said their goodbyes and parted ways after long hugs.

Yusuf and Nicolò watched the ship sail away and then they walked back to the cabin without a word, but bumping shoulders as they did.

* * *

**2020**

“Andy, why did you dump them for a _century_?” Nile demanded to know.

“Quynh and I had been alone for a long time. Before and after Lykon. And after Lykon, we knew the pain of losing someone. You don’t know just how shocking it is to lose someone you have grown attached to for over two millennia.”

Nicky and Joe shared a look, one of fear of the inevitable.

“We were apprehensive about letting these two into our lives and into our hearts,” Andy spoke earnestly, but then her expression and tone changed and she added: “Also, frankly, the unresolved sexual tension was exhausting to be around and we were hoping to be gone just long enough to miss the entire honeymoon phase. That turned out to be a wishful thinking.”

“Why? How long did the honeymoon phase last?”

“Seriously?” Andy snorted. “I won’t live long enough to see the end of it. You’ll have to tell me.”

The reminder of her mortality caused the smiles everyone had been sporting to falter.

Nile adjusted in her seat. Now that the mood had soured anyway, she asked Nicky: “Did you never start praying again? I’ve never seen you pray. Do you… do you still believe in God?”

“Why do you want to know?”

She touched a hand to the golden cross that rested against her neck. “I guess I want to know if there is a point to having faith. Or – if you live long enough – it all just falls apart. And that, until then, you will all think of me as silly and misled for still believing.” She’d been observant. Not only did Nicky no longer pray, but neither did Joe nor Andy. In fact, Andy had been openly and casually critical of all religions.

Nicky leaned forward, out of Joe’s hold, focusing all his kindness on her. “Nile, your faith is yours alone. As long as you do not use it to excuse or justify hate and violence, there is no need for you to let go of more than you already have. And none of us will think less of you for your beliefs.”

“But do you still believe in God?”

He wrung his hands together and dipped his head.

Joe laid his hand on his back and stroked his thumb back and forth.

“I do not believe in any man’s word about God, but I do believe there is a God. I believe he is the reason Andromache has walked the earth and protected people as long as she has. I believe he is the reason Joe and I rose together and are still together. I believe he is the reason you are with us now. Our immortality is not science. Merrick could have searched for the key to our long lives in our DNA until it would have been too late for him; he would have never found it. I _believe_. But-…”

Nile took a deep breath, bracing herself.

“I have lived long enough to know better than to think any man – or woman,” He shot a playful look at Andy to lighten the mood, “can truly understand God and can speak for Him, or even to Him. I used to think differently and ever since I am burdened by regrets that I will carry like stones in my stomach until I can carry on no more. Religion brings peace to some, but war to so many more. Throughout history, humanity has weaponized faith. For almost a thousand years’ worth of immortality, I’ve seen men do the worst things imaginable in the name of religion. Before then, I, too, have done the worst things imaginable in the name of religion. I don’t need to talk to God to know right from wrong. I talk to Joe, to Andy… to you. I put my faith in my family.”

Joe rubbed his eyes and tried a laugh to smuggle out the sob that had built in his chest. In Italian he spoke to him: “It is you, my love, who has never failed to lead us the right way, for your heart always finds the way to kindness, like a true compass finds the North.”

“Pffff, immortality is complicated shit, man.”

Everyone let out a laugh as Nile’s statement.

Nicky said: “You will figure it out.”

Joe nuzzled his nose into the side of his neck and let his fingers crawl up his spine until he could thread them into his hair and feel his rounded skull where no evidence remained of what had been done to him by Keane.

“I guess story-time is over for tonight,” Nile concluded as she observed the way Joe got wholly lost in Nicky.

“Yes. We will continue tomorrow.”

Naked in bed again, Joe let his hands explore Nicky’s body, not in search of anything specific, just reminding himself of every inch of warm and smooth skin. His love sighed pleasantly at the caresses, then chased the hands with his own to lace their fingers together.

“I want to continue the story,” Joe muttered into the shell of his ear.

“Hmm, should I call for Nile to get in here?”

Joe freed his hand to tweak a nipple in punishment, his heart blossoming at the startled laugh that resulted. He let his hand be recaptured. “I want to tell you the story.”

“But I know the story. I was there... Plus, you’ve told me before. You’ve told me many times.”

“I want to tell you again, if you’ll let me. I want to recall the details that Nile should not be privy to, not yet, maybe not ever, for it is our treasure and only you and I appreciate its true value. I want to tell you again of the day I first realized I loved you and how I’ve loved you more every day since. I love you even more today than I did yesterday and I will love you more still tomorrow. As unfathomable as it is.”

Nicky turned around in his arms and Joe dove into the eyes in which he had first learned to swim, after drowning in them many times over. “I wish I could express my love the way you can. I speak as many languages, yet I do not have the words you do. But I need you to know how much I love you.”

“I do know. You speak your love to me with your eyes, your hands, your _food_ ,” He winked at him.

Nicky smiled and pushed his head forward on the pillow until their noses touched.

“Mmm… even with your nose.” He moved to kiss the tip of it. “There’s a lot of love in this big, Roman nose.”

Nicky laughed until he snorted and sure enough Joe loved him a little more again.

“Will you let me tell you the story?”

“Yes, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicky’s voracious reading is of course inspired by that ONE shot in the movie, but also by watching Luca Marinelli in Martin Eden. If you are not the kind of obsessive personality type that checks out an actor’s others works after falling in love with a character, and you have not seen Martin Eden yet, I highly recommend it. 
> 
> Question of the day (because we might as well die on this hill): Favorite look Joe gives Nicky in the movie? Let's exclude anything from the armored van scene, for shits and giggles. I really enjoyed reading everyone's answers on the previous chapter!
> 
> For me, it's when he looks to check on Nicky right after they've come back alive in the basement. There is such relief there.


	4. Chapter 4

**1104**

When he returned to the cabin after performing Salat al-zuhr in the orchard that Andréa and Quynh had planted two centuries ago, he found one of his blank parchments on the table outside where they usually ate together. It was weighted down by the book he’d seen Nicolò read that morning. Scribbled in the corner, as small as possible, was a note:

_At the market._

Nicolò’s handwriting was crude, barely legible even, so why did Yusuf smile?

It was the first time one of them had left a note for the other. Usually they just came and went as they pleased, having no reason to suspect the other would worry over their absence. No reason to suspect they would be missed. But now Nicolò had felt the need to put him at ease with the little note, now that it was just the two of them and would be for the next hundred years. Nicolò dared to think Yusuf might worry about being left alone and Nicolò was right. Bless him, Nicolò was right.

But Nicolò also should have known that the note would not keep Yusuf calm as the afternoon dragged on and he had yet to return.

When he should have been getting ready for his late afternoon prayer, Yusuf instead saddled up the horse Nicolò had come to call Sahra – even though her real name was something Italian, not the Arabic word for desert – and he rode to the town.

He didn’t come across Nicolò on the road midway as he expected, so he spurred the horse to gallop faster.

Nicolò had left him behind once before. Would he do it again?

No, if he would, he wouldn’t have left that note.

What if he was in trouble?

What if he had protected someone and had been exposed in the process?

“Faster, Sahra,” He whispered to the mare, even though she wouldn’t understand him, or even hear him as the sea breeze carried away the sound of his voice. 

By the time he arrived in town, the merchants had already packed up for the day and the last of them were dismantling their stall for the night. The town square was bathed in the orange light of the sunset. Yusuf rode to the shop of the blacksmith where Nicolò sometimes lent his service in exchange for things they couldn’t otherwise afford with what they grew in their garden or hunted on the land North of the bay. The shutters were already closed and when he banged his fist on the door, there was no answer.

Yusuf’s mind returned to a village not dissimilar to this one, although it was a village that had been burned down. He remembered calling out Nicolò’s name in vain, knowing he had been the one to chase him away with his anger. He had grown to miss the man and he had learned how much he hated missing him. He did not want to return to that. He did not want to suffer that feeling again.

Children’s laughter drew his attention and with Sahra’s reigns firmly in his grip he chased the sound to around the corner.

A group of a dozen boys and one tall man were playing in the street, trying to steal a ball from each other using only their feet.

“Nicolò,” He breathed in relief, watching the man run around with the boys, laughing along with them. His shirt clung to his chest and back. His hair clung to his forehead and neck. He would reek of sweat, Yusuf knew, yet he wanted to be close to him in spite of it.

A handful of women were seated around the well nearby, washing clothes and keeping a watchful eye over their sons. They were smiling. Nicolò was loved in the village. The blacksmith loved him. The fishermen loved him. The sailors loved him. The merchants loved him. The nuns loved him.

Nicolò was easy to love for all but one.

It was not easy for Yusuf.

But standing there, watching him play with children as if he was a child himself, Yusuf admitted, only to himself – for even that was difficult - that he did love the man. The only dignity Yusuf had left was convincing himself that he was not _in love_ with him.

Nicolò stopped amidst the game when he noticed Yusuf. The ball, which he had claimed, was stolen away from his feet by a boy who was cheered on by the others. Nicolò motioned for Yusuf to join them, too polite to yell down the street.

Yusuf shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. He turned to leave, to go back home alone and let Nicolò play as he desired, but he paused and waited when the man started towards him, saying his goodbyes to the boys, ruffling the hair of one of them as he went.

When he reached him, Yusuf looked him up and down. For a man that had left to go to the market, it was noteworthy that he carried nothing with him. “You wrote that you had gone to the market.”

“Only to entertain myself. I did not need anything. Did you need something?”

 _For you to be home with me_ , Yusuf thought. He shook his head.

Wanting to be back at the cabin before darkness, for the path along the cliffs could be dangerous on a night with only a sickle moon like this one would be, Yusuf mounted Sahra and then took his left foot out of the stirrups and he scooted forward in the saddle as much as he could. “Get up here. We will ride together.”

“Are you sure?”

“It will be dark soon,” He answered simply.

Nicolò put his boot up into the loop of the stirrup and one hand on Yusuf’s thigh and climbed up onto the horse, settling behind the Muslim. His foot vacated the stirrup so Yusuf could ride properly.

They weren’t even out of the town when Yusuf crinkled his nose and threw over his shoulder: “You stink.”

“Sorry.”

Yusuf wasn’t really mad or annoyed, he just wanted to have something to say.

As Sahra picked up the pace, Yusuf felt Nicolò twist the fingers of one hand into the back of his tunic to have something to hold onto. He caught a shameful longing in his chest. The longing for Nicolò to loop his arms around him and press himself tightly against his back. It didn’t matter that he was sweaty, that he would stain Yusuf’s clothes if he did. Yusuf wanted exactly that, wanted his clothes to smell of Nicolò’s sweat and then wear the same tunic for days without washing it. 

This Christian was turning him into a filthy person, Yusuf thought with a wry smirk.

Since he had missed his prayer, Yusuf got his prayer rug, laid it out right by the cabin and caught up, while Nicolò cared for Sahra, lit some candles, and laid out some food.

Yusuf struggled to focus on his prayers with Nicolò moving about. It wasn’t that he blamed he man, he was not being purposefully annoying, it was just challenging to focus on anything other than Nicolò whenever the man was around. Which was exactly why Yusuf had taken to praying in the orchard recently.

But he finished dutifully and then rolled up the rug, really just a small rug he had commissioned a woman in town to weave for him. He froze when he became aware Nicolò was watching him. The man was seated at the table, dressed in a different tunic, food untouched in front of him as he had waited for Yusuf to complete his ritual.

“There is no need for you to wait for me.”

“We eat together, like civilized men.”

“Let’s not confuse you for a civilized man,” Yusuf teased and for a heartbeat he worried Nicolò would fail to recognize the jest and be hurt, but instead the candlelight illuminated a small smile and a sparkle in his eyes.

Yusuf sat across from him and they shared dinner.

After they had eaten their fill, Nicolò declared: “I have something I have been meaning to give you. Forgive me for my hesitation, but I was worried – I still worry – that you could find it offensive.”

Yusuf sat back and frowned at him. “Ok. What is it?” He, too, was a little worried. This thing he felt for Nicolò, this affection, was fragile, and he would rather not see it be ruined.

Nicolò rose and disappeared into the cabin momentarily. He returned with something wrapped in cloth. It was a book, Yusuf could tell, once it was handed to him. He waited for the man to sit down across from him again before folding away the fabric to see what his gift was.

His breath hitched. It was a Quran. Black, smooth leather with golden embossed script on the front. “Where did you get this?” Surely the bookstore in town didn’t sell copies of the Quran.

“In Alexandria.”

“Alexandria?” He repeated dumbly. It was years ago when Nicolò had come through the port city, shortly after running away from Yusuf. “You’ve had it all this time?”

Nicolò ducked his head in shame. “I am sorry.”

“No, Nicolò, do not apologize. I am not angry.” He wasn’t accusing him, he was amazed. The book was in pristine condition, having been kept safe for years of traveling. It was clear it had been cherished. “Why did you buy this?”

“I got a lot of money for the horse, more than enough for passage to Athens. I didn’t need anything else. I wanted to have it, to understand your people better, because I knew by then I had been lied to about Muslims. I wanted the truth.” He laughed bitterly at himself. “But of course I can’t read it. It was stupid. I am stupid. I’m sorry. I truly did not mean disrespect, I hope you trust me when I tell you that.”

“I do trust you.” He opened the book and leafed through the pages, scanning the handwritten script that he had memorized. “I can read it to you in your language and teach you how to read it yourself, if you’d like.”

The offer surprised Nicolò. “I would be honored, Yusuf.”

He got up and walked around the table to take a seat next to Nicolò on the bench. He scooted so close to him that their outer thighs touched. The man still smelled as he had changed his clothes but hadn’t washed himself yet. Yusuf did not mind. He placed the book in front of them and opened it to the first page. His fingers followed the letters as he translated effortlessly.

That night he read to him the first surah and Nicolò hunched over the book the way he hunched over every book and Yusuf could feel his breath on his hand as he traced each word.

* * *

**1105**

Every dawn they trained.

Every late morning they hunted and picked fruits and vegetables.

Every afternoon they brought stones up from the shore and down from the hill to build their own houses.

Every evening Yusuf read a chapter of the Quran to Nicolò and taught him how to read the intricate script and pronounce the words.

Every night they slept side by side under the stars and pretended to be unaware of each other’s nightmares, just scooting closer whenever the other would startle awake.

The last surah Nicolò was able to read aloud himself. His accent would make his Arabic impossible to understand for anyone other than Yusuf, but Yusuf was proud. Nicolò read the words with such reverence. A Christian reading the Quran with nothing but respect. Malta was truly paradise.

Of course reading the words did not make Nicolò believe in Allah. It was not about any God, Nicolò was letting go of that. It was about Yusuf, about holding onto Yusuf. He could feel that in his heart. It was evident in the effort Nicolò put into learning his faith and his language and the way he looked to Yusuf for approval. In return, the Muslim could do nothing but praise him. Even when the words were stilted or in the wrong order.

Nicolò was a fast learner in almost every regard, it was adorable that languages was the one thing his mind failed to grasp with the same kind of elegance that he did everything else.

Yusuf admired Nicolò’s grace with the longsword, but not with words, for there was none. It was his devotion that caused Yusuf to regard him with adoration.

At some point, he did not remember when, he stopped hiding that from the other man.

Yusuf had not been wrong to forgive him and he had not been wrong to love him. It was a powerful thing to know that even your most hated enemy could become your dearest friend - or even more - if you gave them the chance. Yusuf knew many men would abuse such a second chance, but all deserved it nonetheless. No matter what evil he would encounter in the millennia before him, Yusuf vowed to himself to hold onto this revelation that had come to him in Malta. To be a forgiving man, to risk the hurt because the joy was incomparable. Even if he could only change _one man_ out of every thousand by keeping an open mind, it would be worth it.

The rest he’d slay as soon as he’d heal after the betrayal.

It was night, a little past midnight. The moon was moving down now, sinking through the stars towards the horizon. The ocean was nothing but a mirror image of the sky above them.

Even though Andréa and Quynh had been gone for over a year, Yusuf and Nicolò had never taken to sleeping in the cabin and their own houses were nothing yet but two piles of stones. Andréa would call them lazy, for sure. She would chastise them for too much time spent reading and drawing.

Instead, Yusuf and Nicolò slept under the stars on clear, warm nights and in a tent when it was cold or raining – two rare occurrences on Malta. Not rushed to build houses that would separate them.

Nicolò’s gasps had awoken Yusuf but he was grateful. It had roused him from his own nightmare. A nightmare of mass graves in loose sand. He knew they shared these nightmares the way they once shared the dreams of the women.

He didn’t say anything, or even look his way. They just laid together, waiting for their hearts to calm.

“How do you know in which direction to pray?”

The question came out of nowhere. Yusuf didn’t even think Nicolò was aware that he was awake. “I use the stars.”

There was a long pause, the way there was always a long pause when Nicolò wanted to ask something but was afraid of the question making him sound ignorant. Nicolò was not an educated man, unlike Yusuf. There were many things about the world and how it worked that he didn’t understand and had never even given any thought to before. All the church had ever taught him was to not ask too many questions. But in his time spent with Yusuf, it was like Nicolò gave everything careful consideration. Nothing was taken for granted anymore. His questions did not make him ignorant. Searching for answers, as far as Yusuf was concerned, was the literal opposite of ignorance.

He finally asked: “How is that possible? There is no rhyme or reason to them.”

He did not judge. “There is. There are constellations. Through Banat Naash al-Kubra, we can find the North star, al-Qiblah. If we can determine North, we can find Mecca.” He moved off his bedroll to lay half on Nicolò’s. He lay so close to him that their shoulders touched and then he cocked his head until their temples touched as well. With their eyesight lined up, Yusuf grabbed Nicolò’s hand and shaped it so he’d point his finger. With a loose grip on his wrist he stretched their arms up and aimed his finger at the sky.

With Nicolò’s finger he traced a constellation, drawing in the air. “That is Banat Naash al-Kubra. It’s shaped like a pot you’d use over an open flame, with a long handle. See it?” He traced the shape again, briefly pausing at every star that created it.

The other man hummed.

“These two stars that make up the side of the pot… If you follow a line all the way up… Further, further, further,” His voice got quieter as he spoke and guided Nicolò’s hand. “You’ll find al-Qiblah - just a little big brighter than the stars around it. And to be sure, you check if the star you’ve found is part of al-Rakabah. Which is like a little pot turned upside down. The North star is the very tip of the handle.”

He turned his head to look at Nicolò. He was closer to him than he had ever been. His eyes reflected the stars as the Mediterranean did. Nicolò was enthralled by the sight and this new understanding of the sky that Yusuf had given him. Yusuf was overwhelmed by the epiphany that he’d rather spent every night looking down at Nicolò’s face, than looking up at the stars.

He stroked his hand down the man’s arm. The loose sleeve of his tunic had sagged down to his bicep and Yusuf’s coarse fingers ghosted over skin, making goosebumps appear. He propped himself up on his elbow to hover over that exquisite face. When Nicolò brought his hand down, he folded his arm at the elbow and fingers threaded into Yusuf’s curls.

Yusuf had been with men before, but it had been about lust - this was not lust. He had touched himself in secret in the orchard and in the shallows of the ocean but even that had not been about lust. He loved this man so deeply and he couldn’t even bring himself to feel guilty or ashamed about it any longer.

He leaned down without even the sense to kiss him. He pressed his nose into his cheek and inhaled deeply. The skin smelled of the sea in which he had swam after dinner, under the watchful eyes of Yusuf who had seated himself on the beach, curling his toes into the sand that had cooled in the absence of the sun. He scratched his beard along his jawline and bumped his nose against Nicolò’s. He slid his hand across his chest, feeling nipples through the linen. He sighed as the man plucked on a tight curl but then the hand was gone from his hair.

Yusuf raised up and opened his eyes to a pained expression. Yusuf knew what it felt like to get stabbed directly into his heart and this was _exactly_ what it felt like. “Nicolò?”

With an “I’m sorry” said so quickly and softly that Yusuf nearly missed it altogether, Nicolò got up from the ground and walked away. Grass that hadn’t seen rainfall in weeks crunched under his bare feet until both the sound and Nicolò were gone.

He rolled onto his back and waited for his heart to stop hurting, but this was a pain his body refused to heal.

Dear Nicolò did not return his feelings. _Could not_. Few men could. Few men could love another man the way they could a woman. And those that could were disparaged and punished for it, especially white men. Yusuf had misinterpreted their closeness. Nicolò may have denounced the hatred that was spewed in sermons at church with regards to Muslims, but that wouldn’t necessarily mean he felt in any way forgiving towards sexual and romantic deviancy. He likely still considered it perverse.

This beautiful thing that Yusuf cherished for Nicolò was mistaken for perversion and it wrecked him.

Nicolò did not return to Yusuf’s side that night, so Yusuf could find no rest. But in the morning the Italian offered him breakfast and neither spoke of what had happened – or had _almost_ happened – in the night.

Nothing changed about their routine, nothing changed between them, and nothing changed about Yusuf’s feelings for Nicolò. He supposed if anyone could live long enough to fall out of love, it would be him. It would be his exercise in patience.

Nicolò worked for two weeks straight for the blacksmith, hammering horse shoes to be able to buy a bow and a quiver of arrows. Surely, when Andréa and Quynh would return at the turn of the century, they would expect them to have mastered more skills than swordsmanship alone. They took turns with the new weapon. Before long, Nicolò could hit a turtle dove in the eye every single time. Yusuf’s aim wasn’t quite as true and that had to do with the fact that he always flinched upon the release of the arrow, which ruined its course. Because every time the feathers of the bolt brushed by his fingers, he was assaulted with the flash of a memory.

The memory of Nicolò lying prone on the ground with an arrow in his heart.

At least his drawings were getting better. With not but a few quick strokes he could capture the elegance of Nicolò’s movements and the intensity of his expressions. And then he’d spend the rest of the day, sometimes even more than one day, refining the drawing until the parchment became a fata morgana; realistic and alluring. Sometimes it was a portrait, sometimes a full body, sometimes just his hands, his mouth, or his eyes.

As Yusuf’s drawing became better, Nicolò’s reading became better. He had finally worked his way through all the Italian books Andréa and Quynh had collected in their cabin, so he started buying new ones in town. Some days they ate the stale bread the baker had left, instead of buying a new loaf because Yusuf encouraged Nicolò to spend the money he earned for his work, or the rabbit Yusuf had ensnared, on the book that had caught his eye.

“Too much fresh bread will make us fat and lazy anyway,” He would chide.

Similarly, Nicolò insisted that Yusuf buy a big sketchbook, instead of the loose parchments, and whenever Nicolò rode into town alone for work, he’d return with a new stick of charcoal for Yusuf to draw with. 

Although Yusuf longed for a touch or a kiss, he was grateful for these gestures because he recognized them to be gestures of love. It was not the kind of affection he desired, but it was enough to make him happy.

He supposed he had been a little too engrossed in his latest drawing and had more or less been ignoring his companion for the past three days as he was drawing not just the man, but also Sahra.

The large sketchbook lay comfortably propped up against his drawn up knees. The scratch of the charcoal on the paper was the only sound to accompany that of the wind through the trees. Nicolò had thoroughly brushed down the mare after quickly riding her into town midafternoon to get new arrow tips. The set they had had gone blunt from Yusuf still practicing shooting at tree trunks.

To stop himself from being envious of the tender care and devotion that Nicolò was giving the horse – Yusuf, a proud man, was jealous of a _horse_! – he poured everything into his sketch. With a fluster on his cheek, it almost felt like a violation to draw him, like the swipes of charcoal were touches for which he had not asked permission.

So Nicolò couldn’t be faulted for being a little irked when apparently he had to ask the same question a third time because Yusuf wasn’t paying attention to him.

Finally, he snapped out of it. “Hm? What? Sorry?” He looked up.

Nicolò stood with his arms crossed. Hips cocked one way, head the other.

He would have to start a new sketch soon, Yusuf thought, and draw him exactly like that. Even his scowl was attractive. 

“I asked if you needed something.”

All his eloquence failed him. “Huh?”

“From the market.”

“You’re going again?”

“I’m bored.” It sounded like an accusation.

Clearly he had already finished the last book he bought. It was impressive. Yusuf knew he should start teaching the man Greek or Spanish, so he could read more from Andréa and Quynh’s collection, or they’d go broke and starve to feed his hunger for stories.

“Oh. No, thank you. I have everything I need,” Said the Muslim.

Instead of leaving, as Yusuf expected, Nicolò idled. He unfolded his arms and put his hands on his hips. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and toed his boot at the dry dirt. Yusuf looked down at his sketchbook and tried to continue, but it was very hard. Nicolò’s bright gaze burned hotter than the sun.

The man took one step sideways, casting his shadow on Yusuf. The Arab looked up again, amused. “Do _you_ need something?”

“Can I see your art?”

“Oh…” If anything, Yusuf drew his knees up further to better hide the open pages from the curious gaze. He had never showed Nicolò his work, as it was embarrassing. “I wouldn’t really call it art. More like… a journal without words.”

“What do you draw?”

 _You._ “My life.” Not a lie.

_Oh Allah, you got me in so much trouble with this one._

“Then there is no need for you to hide it. Your life is my life.”

That was, perhaps, one of the most accidentally intimate things Nicolò had ever said to him: _your life is my life_.

Taking a risk, he grabbed the sketchbook and turned it around to show the double page drawing to the other man. A smile tugged at Yusuf’s lips when Nicolò leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees and squinted as he inspected the work. He didn’t seem phased at all that he was the subject of the drawing. Yusuf’s obsession had probably been made a little less overt by including Sahra in the work.

“You are very talented. Horses are difficult to draw.”

He stretched his legs out, his feet nearly reaching Nicolò’s and he put the sketchbook down in his lap. “Can you draw?”

“Not at all. But I’ve seen artists fail to draw a knight on horseback and still ask money for their work. I’m sure there are people in town that would pay you fair money for your artistry.”

“People in town don’t like me very much.”

“Yes, they do. They always smile at you.”

“No. They like _you_. They smile at _you_. I just happen to be in your proximity.” Where he wished to always be. “Besides, I don’t want to draw ‘people in town’. I like drawing you.” He flashed a grin. “Free of charge.”

Nicolò was grinning too. He straightened up and when the wind tousled his hair he smoothed a hand through it. Yusuf had recently cut it for him, exactly as Quynh had done. He thought getting to freely run his hands through the fine hair was the greatest pleasure. Until Nicolò returned the favor and trimmed Yusuf’s curls. No, having Nicolò’s long fingers combing through _his_ hair was even better.

Emboldened by the fact that Nicolò remained standing there, even though the conversation had died out, he said: “Would you sit for me sometime?”

“Sit?”

“Sorry, that might not be the right word. I mean pose? Model?”

“That sounds like something you should be paying me for.”

He let out a guffaw. “It’s not hard work. All you have to do is _sit_.”

“Now?”

Yusuf wasn’t prepared for Nicolò to play along but he should have been. The man did just express to him that he had been bored, after all. “Sure.”

Nicolò took the instruction of ‘sit’ very literally and lowered himself onto the ground to sit cross-legged next to Yusuf’s outstretched legs. He raked his fingers through his hair again before resting both hands on his thighs. “What do I do?”

“Just… look at me.”

He did, with those piercing eyes. “Should I smile?”

“Only if you want to.”

He did, reflexively, but then he scrunched his nose and molded his expression into something stoic.

“This might take a little bit, I’m sure how long I can stand you glowering at me.”

“You used to be able to stand it quite well.”

“Not anymore,” He said poignantly.

Nicolò nodded. He rolled his shoulders, fretted with his hair one last time, and then with a sigh he relaxed his features and his expression became serene, his eyes calm.

Yusuf died a small, pleasant death.

Then he flipped over to a fresh page. He studied Nicolò for several heartbeats, even when there was no need. He had memorized his face. Still, he snuck glances at him as he worked. Getting the shape of his face right was muscle memory to Yusuf. From there on it was filling in the blanks. “Tell me about the book you are reading,” He encouraged while he sketched.

“Is it ok for me to talk?”

“Hmhm. Just don’t move your head to much, I don’t want the light to hit you differently.”

“Can you draw me without this?”

Yusuf looked up to see him pointing at the mark on his jaw. “I didn’t think you to be a vain man, Nicolò.” But he dropped his teasing tone to ask him why.

“Because it’s ugly.”

Yusuf stilled the charcoal to frown at him. “Nothing about you is ugly.”

“You laughed at me when you first saw it.”

There was a pang of guilt in his heart. He made a dismissive gesture. “Let’s just say we both made mistakes back then.”

Nicolò chuckled at the euphemism and then told him about his book. The book had been in Italian, but for practice he summarized it in Arabic – _Nicolò’s Arabic_ , a dialect in and of itself, but one Yusuf was fluent in.

Yusuf resumed his drawing with practiced ease, the process made even more swift by having his subject right there, unmoving. He didn’t want to make Nicolò sit for hours, so it would be a rougher sketch than he tended to create lately, but the less careful lines of charcoal had a way of epitomizing the unrefined, masculine beauty of the man before him. Every time he passed by the jaw, he resisted the urge to draw in the mole, after all he had been commissioned not to.

Once he was satisfied and before he’d start to worry he was only adding to Nicolò’s boredom, he blew on the page to get rid of black dust. He turned his sketchbook to show him.

Nicolò looked impressed by his skill once more.

“At one point you started blushing, but I don’t have any colors.” Yusuf loved how much redder Nicolò’s face went at that.

“It’s very good.”

“Good? Hn.” He angled the book back to himself and put on a theatrical frown. “Wait.” He dotted the charcoal against the paper. He smiled. “There.” He showed Nicolò the improved end result. He had added his beauty mark. “Now it’s _perfect_.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Only your insecurity. Even with all the time in the world, I have no time for such useless things as the insecurity of a beautiful man.” His tone was mild.

Nicolò tensed up and averted his gaze. His jaw clenched shut.

Realizing his mistake, he said: “Forgive me, I overstepped. I should not have spoken so boldly. It is not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. I’m… confused.” He frowned, apparently that wasn’t the right word either.

“Scared?” He offered.

“I’m not a coward.”

“Fright and cowardice are not the same.” He closed the sketchbook and put it aside. “Nicolò, I apologize for crossing a boundary that night, when I showed you how to find the North star. I didn’t mean to offend you with such intimacy. I swear to you, you need not worry that I will pervert our friendship. I was flirting just now and I shouldn’t have been. I respect you.”

The other ignored most of what he said. “You were going to kiss me, yes?”

“Yes, I was going to kiss you.”

“Why?”

Yusuf considered himself a well-spoken man, in both Arabic and Ligurian and many more languages Nicolò didn’t speak. But why he wanted to kiss him was not something he thought he could ever do justice with words. He feared he could search for words for centuries and still have the meaning fall short. “If I could make sense of it, I would answer you,” He said. “The only explanation I can offer is that what I feel for you I have never felt for anyone, man or woman, and it makes me crave a closeness of which a kiss would only be the start. But I promise I will not violate your body or your trust.”

Nicolò parted his lips, was about to say something but stopped himself. He pressed his mouth into a taut line. This repeated a few times until he asked: “You’ve kissed men before?”

He worried the man would think less of him if he were to be honest, but if they were going to spend a stretch of time together as close to eternity as a simple man could imagine, he had no choice but to be honest. If Nicolò would resent him for it, he would suffer it. “Yes. And more.”

“Did you want more from me than a kiss?”

“I would want all you’d give me willingly. No more, no less.” He spoke solemnly. “If all you give me is your friendship, I shall be grateful. If you give me no more, I shall want no more.”

“What would Allah say about your desires?”

“I’ll ask him when we’ll meet. But it seems like that will not be until a long time from now. So I owe you that answer when the time comes.” The stories in the Quran were not as clear as some Imams would preach, which was exactly why some men would seek the pleasure of other men without guilt. Yusuf had learned from Nicolò that no book, prophet or interpreter of either, could speak for any god.

“I will have to ask my God too,” Nicolò said. “But until then, I don’t know how to feel.”

“About my desires or… about your own?” Yusuf dared to ask, dared to hope.

“…My own.”

He swallowed his heart back down.

“We met at the gates of Jerusalem because I was promised I would be absolved. It was an entirely selfish pursuit to rid myself of the burden of my sin.”

He stilled and held his breath, afraid that anything could stop Nicolò from opening up to him; scare him away like the rabbits they hunted.

“For only one kiss I have a thousand regrets...” Nicolò spoke, looking down at where his hands fidgeted. For once, he would speak without gesturing with them. That alone spoke volumes.

“I was an altar boy and so was Pietro. To this day I’m not sure if I loved him in a way that should warrant a kiss, but I loved him differently from my other friends. I had wanted to kiss him since I was fourteen years of age but for two years I stopped myself before I would lean in. Until, one day, I didn’t stop myself. In our church of all places. He hit me with the candlestick he was holding, I still have the scar,” Nicolò touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

Yusuf had thoughtlessly drawn the scar many times, with nothing more than a single flick of the charcoal.

“He told Bishop Gabriela and the bishop told our fathers. Having brought him such shame, my father denounced me as his son and let the Bishop deal with me as he saw fit. He’d send me away to the monastery, a kindness compared to the orphanage. But to earn it, I had to first endure my punishment. He had the priest whip me as I read aloud the story of Sodom and Gomorrah and he wouldn’t stop until I was done… I wasn’t a very fast reader, you know this, and crying and screaming slowed me down even more. It hurt so much… I passed out before I could finish. So they had me start over the next day. It took me three tries to read the full story without vomiting or blacking out.” There was a hurting in his eyes that needed to be poured out with tears, but he did not cry.

“I feared the eternal punishment of Hell, so I became a priest to remove all temptation. But there was still sin in my bed on private nights; in my heart and in my mind. I… touched myself… thinking about men touching me.” His already slumped form shrunk further in on itself. “So when the Pope called on all Christian men to reclaim the Holy Land, I went to war to save myself from damnation. I tried to save myself at the cost of innocent people. Your people. As a result, I am a more sinful man than I have ever been.”

“I have forgiven you,” He reminds him.

“And you are gracious for it. But I have not forgiven myself. Not for any of it. How could I? Every day I sin a little more, as I long for your kiss, your touch; for you to do things to me that I dare not speak aloud.”

Yusuf’s breath hitched at Nicolò’s quiet admission.

“I don’t know what love is. Sometimes, when I look at you, I think this feeling is it. But you were right, I am scared. I don’t know what I fear more. For you to come to reject me like Pietro. Or for you not to and then for us both to be punished for it, in this long life and the eternal one that follows.”

More than anything Yusuf wished Nicolò would at least look at him. He pushed himself up into a kneeling position in front of Nicolò’s form. His hands itched to touch him but he didn’t. He would hold true to what he had said, that he would take nothing that was not willingly given. “Nicolò,” He tried but the man refused to meet his gaze. “Dear Nicolò, ‘men cannot speak for God’. These wise words are your own. Sin is defined by men. It is a man-made creation, whereas you and I – and all of our desires – have been created by our gods.”

He shook his head. He dug his heels into the dirt and got up. “You don’t know that. You just said yourself you’d have to ask.”

When the Christian walked away, the Muslim chased after him.

Yusuf was not going to let him walk away this time, like he had that night. Because he understood now. He could accept Nicolò not returning his love if he was simply incapable of such affections for another man. He could not accept Nicolò denying them this because he was so burdened by an unjust shame. “Nicolò, wait.” He came to stand in front of him and it was like herding a frightened goat as he stepped from left to right and back to keep Nicolò from bypassing him and going down the path to the beach where he often disappeared to. “Ask him I will. But until then, I have to trust that Allah guides me. Not through the Quran, or the Imams, but through his own actions.”

There was a panic in the bright eyes. He looked ready to bolt. Yusuf could tell that Nicolò was not afraid of him, but instead afraid of his soothing words. Nicolò felt like he deserved the punishment the Bishop had given him and that he ought to punish himself for the rest of his life, so he did not even want Yusuf to pardon him from that self-loathing.

Yusuf had known many pains since meeting the Christian. The pain of a dagger between his ribs, the pain of his boot in his stomach, the pain of his teeth drawing blood from the shell of his ear, the pain of listening to him trying to pronounce Yusuf’s full name… All those pains had stopped a long time ago. Almost long enough to feel like a different lifetime. Yusuf wasn’t prepared to know pain again at Nicoló’s hands, but seeing the man like this wrecked him.

He hoped he was as good with words as Nicolò always praised, because it was all he had to offer in the stead of a balm for his wounds. “A divine lightning has struck the earth outside Jerusalem where we fell and has revived us into an immortal existence.” There was a desperation in the tone of his voice as he preached. “I believe there was a purpose to that. It was not to deny us death but to give us life. A life together. All our lives we have been poisoned against each other, and our gods gave us the ability to bleed ourselves dry and return to life without that poison. If they wanted us to be apart, they would have made it so.”

The Muslim took one step closer and he added: “When we finally meet our gods, we will ask them if our love is wrong. If they say it is so, we will convince them otherwise.”

Nicolò scrubbed a hand over his face. He was paler than he had ever been. He was still scared.

With his words having failed him, there was only one thing left to give: “Take some time, Nicolò. Take all the time you need. I will wait.” Yusuf stepped aside and Nicolò walked away.

Yusuf returned to the olive tree to retrieve his sketchbook and admire the last page. His poor Nicolò was so conflicted and Yusuf’s heart ached for him. But he knew something Nicolò didn’t know yet. He knew they would be one. Whether it would be tomorrow, next year, or in the next millennium.

Because Nicolò would not be so troubled if he did not truly love Yusuf and one day Nicolò would let Yusuf teach him one more thing: that all love is right and he should never let anyone punish him for his love. Not himself, not his Bishop, not his God. 

Yusuf would teach him love over and over until Nicolò would make the knowledge his own, like he made Arabic his own. And it would be the most precious thing. The most _Nicolò thing_.

So Yusuf lay on his back in the grass, watching the moon shift above him, when Nicolò returned home. Yusuf didn’t look, he only listened. He was alerted to the man’s presence by the bristle from Sahra and he heard Nicolò speak reassuring words to her in ‘his Arabic’, which most native speakers would reject as any kind of Arabic at all, so thickly accented it was. But Nicolò’s Arabic was the most beautiful language Yusuf had ever heard.

That was what their love would be and Yusuf was at peace with that. It would be rejected, misunderstood. Only Yusuf and Nicolò would know the depth of its meaning.

Footsteps approached and then Nicolò lowered himself down onto the ground, so close to the other man that they touched. Yusuf smiled then. He had been willing to wait for eternity, but he wouldn’t even have to wait until morning. The Italian had come to the same conclusion that Yusuf had: that their love was inevitable.

But he did not gloat, he waited as he promised he would and he reveled in a powerful realization of his own: how brave Nicolò was.

“Yusuf,” He breathed. “Please… I can’t find the North star.”

He scooted over again, like he had before and took hold of Nicolò’s hand. The man was already keeping his finger pointed. He stretched their arms out and guided the tip of his finger to touch the star – so to speak.

“Thank you for showing me, Yusuf.”

Yusuf brought their hands down and he pressed a kiss to Nicolò’s knuckles.

They both looked at each other at the same time.

Yusuf craned his neck and reverently touched his lips to Nicolò’s. Lips that had only been kissed once before. Lips he vowed to kiss a million times.

He slid a hand along the smooth jaw, thumbed over the shell of his ear and then took hold of his hair. Two of Nicolò’s fingers tickled under his chin, tentatively exploring the texture of his beard.

The kiss was nothing more than the press of their mouths, but it was perfection nonetheless.

When Yusuf spoke, his lips brushed against him. “Thank you for loving me, Nicolò.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they got together already, but there is still a lot of angst to come! Next chapter is going to smutty though ;)
> 
> Initially, I toyed with a version of the story where they wouldn’t get together for the first two centuries. As a message that people can be so poisoned against each other that it takes more than a lifetime for that poison to be sucked out. But in The SpeechTM, Joe says “his kiss still thrills me even after a millennia”. So according to canon they came together so shortly after meeting that it’s rounded up to a millennia, as is their age. That’s why I went with some distance-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder + a crash course on Malta. 
> 
> Question of the day: in your own head-canon, how long did it take for them to get together?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is like 30% unapologetic smut so ye be warned/enjoy!

**1105**

Without ever discussing it, they started building one house, instead of two. They built it on the far side of the orchard, away from the cabin Andréa and Quynh had labored over. It became a bit of a competition to make their home larger than that of the two women, but he justified such childishness by the fact that they had spent the past year gathered enough stones for two separate cabins. It would be wasteful of their efforts to not use all the stones.

In the mornings they still trained on top of the cliff. First clashing swords, then battling hand-to-hand, wrestling each other onto the ground. Afterwards, Nicolò would sharpen both his longsword and Yusuf’s scimitar with a whetstone and piece of leather. Seeing Nicolò care for the scimitar that had killed him many times over epitomized how far they had come and the future promised more progress yet.

In the afternoons they still read and drew and Nicolò taught Yusuf how to swim.

In the evenings Yusuf taught Nicolò more about the stars.

In the nights they still had nightmares. They started sleeping in each other’s arms. It was no cure, but at least they could help each other escape the clutches of terrifying dreams and return to the here and now.

One night, Nicolò wouldn’t wake, even as Yusuf shook his shoulder. In between sobs he mumbled words in Latin, a language Yusuf knew only well enough to recognize snippets of the story of Soddom and Gomorrah. Yusuf brought his mouth to Nicolò’s ear and urged: “Nicolò destati, destati.”

It took a long time to complete the house, but neither was in a rush.

Most of the materials they got from the land. Nicolò didn’t know much about building, having spent most of his life as a priest, living in a monastery built in the ninth century. But, as always, he was a fast learner, tireless, and good with his hands. Once the stone structure stood, Nicolò’s talents became apparent. He felled trees to craft well-made furniture from the timber.

Yusuf stole glances at the man working bare chested.

Kisses he never had to steal. They were given to him, like small gifts. Whenever the want struck him, it struck Nicolò equally and he’d stop whatever he was doing to walk towards Yusuf and connect their mouths.

Some days they would ride to the very tip of the Northern peninsula, which overlooked the island of Comino where Andréa and Quynh had escaped to once. The two men never went there. The women had been gracious enough to invite them to Matla and share the island with them. Comino would always solely belong to them.

On their way, Nicolò would be seated in the saddle behind Yusuf. The first few times, he only had his fingers twisted into the fabric over Yusuf’s back, as he had before. But it evolved. Later he would have a hand on Yusuf’s waist. Then one arm circled around him. Then both. Until, eventually, his hips would be pressed up against Yusuf’s, his chest against his back, his cheek against his shoulder. Yusuf would take one hand off the reigns to hold one of Nicolò’s over his stomach, entwining their fingers.

The man would be lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of Sahra as she walked. His arms would go lax. One hand would sag down to Yusuf’s thighs. The other Yusuf would hold onto until they were back home.

“Do you think Andréa and Quynh are together?” Nicolò asked once as they stood in the water where they had earlier cast their rods to catch fish for lunch. Now they were just staring, enjoying the feel of the waves lapping at their feet. His gaze was trained on the island in the distance, veiled by a morning fog. “Together like us?” He clarified, when it dawned on him that he was being too vague.

Yusuf grinned. “Definitely.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“How can you tell?”

He let out a chuckle. “How can you not? What do you think they were doing when they sailed to Camino and didn’t come back to us for weeks?” Nicolò’s blush was the most adorable sight and Yusuf decided he really did need to _paint_ the man soon. He’d confront the challenge of mixing together colors to create his eyes if it meant he got to brush that sweet shade of pink onto his cheekbones and chest.

“Fishing?” He offered innocently.

Yusuf’s laugh carried over the water. “You are a good man, Nicolò.”

“But foolish,” He surmised, fighting a smile so as to maintain his feign of indignation. “I hope they are safe…”

Yusuf smiled. He hoped so too. But he had seen Andy fight, so he wasn’t worried. “You are not foolish. Innocent. Sweetly so.”

“Sometimes I worry that you know me so well you can read my mind. I’m assured now, knowing that you can’t. For you wouldn’t accuse me of innocence if you know of the thoughts I had of you.”

That deserved Yusuf’s undivided attention. He aimed his grin at Nicolò, the man being a more satisfying sight than the horizon anyway. He had the pant legs of his trousers rolled up to his knees and the sleeves of a threadbare tunic rolled up over his elbows. The wind played with his hair the way Yusuf longed to do.

He knew their attraction heated the Italian as much as it did him. He pretended not to notice the bulge in the front of his pants when he woke up in the morning wrapped up in blankets and Yusuf. Or when Yusuf washed himself with soap and a bucket of fresh water he’d get from the lake, taking a detour on his way back from town. Yusuf also pretended not to purposefully turn the act of bathing into a show for Nicolò’s benefit, pretended not to even be aware of the bright gaze focused on him, pretended his own cock was hard for some unrelated reason.

Yusuf knew. Still, he was curious to hear Nicolò voice _those thoughts_. The prospect alone was enticing enough to make his skin prickle.

He remembered him saying: “I long for your kiss, your touch; for you to do things to me that I dare not speak aloud.”

“Speak your thoughts, Nicolò,” He pleaded, not veiling his need.

Nicolò wouldn’t meet his gaze, but if avoiding eye contact was what he needed to do to muster the courage to open up, Yusuf accepted it. “I think about you using your tongue to kiss me,” He started, his face, neck and chest getting redder than Yusuf had ever seen them, redder than the worst of the fleeting sunburns he’d had. “That you kiss me not solely on my mouth, but everywhere. That your hands touch my body the way it has only been touched by my own hands. I think about us sharing a bed the way I’ve seen and heard men do at war… but slow. Gentle. With you… inside me…”

Yusuf absentmindedly twirled his finger over his own stomach, sometimes grazing the top of his pants. “If you ask me, I will.”

Nicolò looked over to him then. “I’m not ready yet for more than thoughts.”

“I know. Which is why I will wait for you to ask me.” He stood there, regretting the distance between them. Nicolò was still troubled and Yusuf wondered if he ever wouldn’t be. He would work every day to try to make that happen. To ease all of his concerns.

To that, he needed Nicolò to talk to him, so he kindly implored him to do that.

The man hid his hurt with a frown. “I just told you.”

“I’m not fishing for more _thoughts_ ,” He clarified, “Although I would love to hear them. I have these thoughts myself and they warm me from within, but hearing them from you is a white hot flame that brightens the darkest parts of me.” He winked, wanting to bring him levity. Wanting to him save him and have him float in the sea, the way the man had done for him. “Talk to be about your troubles. I can’t read your thoughts, but I read can face, dear Nicolò. There is a pain there that does not belong.”

“It’s not pain for me this time,” He said, as if he was being selfish before and felt guilty for it.

 _I will make myself the sword and the shield that shall protect this kind soul_ , Yusuf vowed.

“Yusuf…”

Oh, how he loved it when Nicolò said his name, but not in that tone.

“You have given me so much already. So much more than I deserve. Your forgiveness and your friendship blanket me. It would be gluttonous of me to accept more gifts from you. Do not cheapen your affections by bestowing them on me.” He stared out beyond Comino, like he had half a mind to dive into the ocean and just swim away until there was no land left to be seen.

Yusuf stepped closer to him, the splashing of water alerted Nicolò and how the man flinched made Yusuf stop just out of arm’s reach from him.

“Yusuf, if you wish to be with a man, I cannot decide for you on right and wrong. But I should not be that man. Even if Allah will not condemn you for it in the afterlife, your people will, in this life. And it will be a long life, Yusuf.” He looked at him then, with brutally honest fear. “I cannot besmirch a good man like you by giving into my desires and tempting you give into yours.”

He took another step. A sharp stone in the water cut into his foot and he didn’t feel it. “Your love would not besmirch me. It would be my blessing.”

“When you see your people again, how can you look them in the eyes with me at your side?”

He switched to Arabic, assuming the tongue proudly. “I will look them in the eyes with pride. If my people can’t understand why I love you, it is their loss. I would not lose sleep over it.”

“Yusuf…” Already his name sounded better falling from Nicolò’s lips. The bitterness was turning sweet. The way he coyly swayed towards Yusuf without even realizing it made the Muslim inch closer to him.

With a gentle tone he challenged: “What would you say to other Christians who will judge you for being in the company of a Muslim – a _barbarian,_ as they would call me?”

Nicolò snapped his head up. His eyes were narrowed, and his gaze was like a beam of sunlight being given focus by a magnifying glass. His voice was rough with anger for the first time in years. “I would tell them I pity their ignorance and that the only man who could teach them to be better people is you, Yusuf. As you have taught me.”

He cracked his stoic façade open to reveal a smile. “I knew you would say that. I would say the same if a Muslim would speak ill to me about you.”

The other cocked his head. “I have taught you nothing, Yusuf. I’m nothing but an uneducated man.”

“You are a _kind_ man. Your kindness inspires me every day. I should surely hope you see how much you’ve changed me, for I am nothing like the spiteful man I was.” Finally he took that last step, without startling Nicolò to move away from him. He pressed their foreheads together and touched his nose to that big, Roman, slightly sunburnt nose. He stroked his hands up from his elbows, over his shoulders, to his hair. He cradled his head, wondering how strong Nicolò had to be, to be able to carry all these thoughts with him all day. With his eyes he urged him: _drop this burden into the sea, let the water make it weightless and carry it away_.

Fingers wrapped around Yusuf’s wrists but not to pry his hands away. No, Nicolò anchored them right where they were.

They shared the air between them, breathing in and out.

Yusuf swore to him: “We will walk among people from all over the world, one generation after the next. We shall prove to them all that two men can love one another and that a Muslim can love a Christian and vice versa.”

Nicolò hadn’t said the words yet, but Yusuf knew he was loved and he’d never need to hear the words if Nicolò would keep showing it to him like he had.

They rode back to Mellieha Bay with their fresh catch. Nicolò had his fingers twisted into the front of Yusuf’s shirt and his nose buried into his curls.

That night, in his arms, Nicolò stirred again. Started to moan and groan. Yusuf was about to rouse him, mistaking his dream to be distressing, but then he heard his own name tumble from those lips.

Now that one sounded _good._

Yusuf’s body shuddered. He had heard Nicolò cry out his name in pain many times, when they had first arrived in Malta and fought each other viciously on the cliffs under the guise of ‘training’. He was not calling Yusuf’s name with agony now.

“Ohh, _Yusuf_.”

The Muslim only shifted enough so that his own erection was not pressed up against Nicolò’s backside as the man wantonly rocked his hips, for that would have been a violation of the trust he had promised him. But he held him throughout the night as he always did.

As time went by, these types of dreams became more common that the nightmares.

* * *

**1106**

Their house was completed. Cozy, but bigger than the cabin of Andréa and Quynh. And sturdier too, Yusuf boasted to the roll of Nicolò’s eyes.

A fire pit at the center, under an opening in the tall roof that could be closed with a hatch when it rained. There were cabinets for their own collection of books that they had started. Shelves upon shelves of novels Nicolò had read and rows of sketchbooks Yusuf had filled. On one side there stood a table with two benches, finely crafted and sanded to be smooth to the touch, courtesy of the Italian. On the other side there was a steep ladder up to a mezzanine where they had made their bed. The large window there, with painted shutters, was just high enough that it looked over the orchard and they could see the smaller cabin in the distance and the bay beyond. They had both craved some sort of connection to it, even after they had distanced themselves from the cabin that wasn’t theirs.

Behind the home they had cleared a field from a few wayward sapling trees and had lined it with fencing, so Sahra had a paddock in which to roam at night, instead of being tied to a post to keep her from darting off when a rare thunderclap or another sound made her nervous.

It was there he found Nicolò, on what would be their first night sleeping in the house they had built.

The man leaned his elbows on the top beam of the fence, watching Sahra mosey through the grass, nibbling here and there.

Yusuf touched his hand to Nicolò’s shoulder when he came to stand beside him. When he felt his body relax at the touch, he let his hand wonder down to the small of his back and rested his chin on the shoulder instead. “She looks happy.” He observed and a smile appeared on Nicolò’s lips. Yusuf hummed. “You look happy too.”

“You are with me. So I am.”

“Nnn… All those books will make a romantic of you yet.”

“I’ll never have words like you do.”

“Probably for the best. You’d be insufferable if you were any more perfect than you already are.”

Nicolò snorted a laugh. “You are so clever with your words you manage to flatter and insult me at once.” He turned around in the small space between the fence and Yusuf’s body. He folded his arms around Yusuf’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

They had kissed this way hundreds of times; just their mouths pressed together, lips barely moving. But it still electrified Yusuf. It was both too much and not enough at once. He clasped his hands around the wooden beam on either side of his love. His fingers twitched with a need to explore that body with touches the way he had with long gazes.

Nicolò parted his lips and flicked his tongue against Yusuf’s mouth.

A moan escaped him. He knew what Nicolò wanted, but: “You have to ask me, my love.”

“Kiss me… Kiss me deeply…” Not technically a question, until he muttered: “Please?”

With the desperation of a man finding water in the desert, Yusuf brought his hands up to cradle Nicolò’s head and tilt him as needed as he plied his lips open with his tongue.

A startled gasp blended into a moan.

In Nicolò’s mouth he tasted the sourness of tangerines he’d had for desert and a sweetness Yusuf would get to know as _just Nicolò_.

The inexperienced man returned the kiss with fervor, letting Yusuf’s tongue lure him into his mouth to return the favor of exploration before they let their tongues spar between them. He arched his back, pushing his hips off the fence and against Yusuf, introducing him to the heat and hardness of his arousal. They moaned in unison and it was only the start of their bodies becoming in-sync with one another.

Yusuf stroked his hands down Nicolò’s neck, his chest, his sides and slid them to the small of his back.

“Grab me, Yusuf. Hold me.”

With a grunt he obliged, pawing at his ass cheeks, squeezing the firm flesh through the leather of his pants. He chuckled then as Andréa’s crude compliment rang through his head: “Nice ass.” It was the best ass. Yusuf’s heart was thundering in his chest and it was an exquisite pain.

Nicolò pulled back at the sound of laughter, looking offended. “Why are you amused?”

He kissed him once, twice, before answering. The tips of their noses touching. “I was just thinking to myself that you may have finally found a way to kill me.” He took both of Nicolò’s hands out of his hair and placed them flat against his chest so he could feel his wild heartbeat.

“I feel the same,” The other whispered in a rush and then connected their mouths again.

“Hmpf-… Mmmm.” Yusuf’s hands wandered back to Nicolò’s ass and he grinded his hips to create friction between their bodies, making them both moan again. Nicolò’s fingers scratched restlessly against Yusuf’s chest and the Muslim interrupted their kiss only long enough to say: “Touch me as you wish, my love. And tell me how you want to be touched in return.” Hands grazed over his chest, moving out to the side to perk up nipples through his shirt and then grabbed at biceps.

“I want it all… Yusuf, I want you…” The man spoke against his mouth, every pause was a pause to kiss. “It is like a flood… I’m powerless to stop it.”

Yusuf recognized his own feelings in the words. The way Nicolò was moaning and senselessly rubbing against him made it all the worse. He worked one hand between their bodies and molded it to the shape of Nicolò’s erection. The man bucked his hips in response and Yusuf’s grin nearly broke their kiss. He felt him through the leather, angled up to his left hipbone. He wanted to touch his skin, wanted his precome to slick his coarse palm and let him fuck into his fist the way Yusuf had pleasured himself so many times in the past years. But he wanted him to share that fist. Wrap his fingers around the both of them as much as he could and have them move together.

“Does that make you feel good, Nicolò?” And he had to admit he was being a tease and fishing for compliments.

Nicolò hissed affirmatively. With stuttered movements he brought his hands back up to Yusuf’s shoulders, just as his knees were buckling under him . He hung most of his weight off the other man’s frame.

Yusuf pushed him back against the fence, pinning him to it. He pressed his thumb against the shape of his cock, massaging the underside, just below the crown.

“Yusuf. _Yusuf_.” His voice pitched. “St-stop!”

Instantly he retreated – his hand, his mouth, his body. “I’m so sorry,” He said before he had even opened his eyes to take in the sight before him.

Nicolò was leaned back against the fence. Moonlight licked his pale skin and turned the color of his eyes silver. His bottom lip was caught by his front teeth. His erection cast a shadow on his hip. Every breath escaped him as a moan.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

Yusuf stepped forward, melding them together once more. “Then why did you ask me to stop?”

“I was going to climax too swiftly for my liking.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest but the sound turned into a whine as Nicolò continued.

“I don’t want to come in my pants. I want to come in our bed. In our home. With you inside me.”

Yusuf blinked at him but he was quick to kiss him, knowing how vulnerable his Nicolò felt admitting to that. “I would love that. But only if you’re sure.”

“I am. I don’t know what it will be like, but I’ve had fantasies about you between my legs, making us one.”

He pressed his nose into the crook of his neck, muffling his groan against the skin. “Oohh, seriously, you’re killing me.” His cock ached, his heart thrummed, every goosebump on his skin was like a pin prick. He pulled him off the fence and towards their house, ridding them both of their tunics along the way. He chased Nicolò up to the mezzanine where their bed awaited, smacking his ass and eliciting a yelp.

Nicolò dropped down into the bed, his thighs parted enough for Yusuf to sink down between them. “Still want me to kiss you _everywhere?_ ” He asked, hovering over him.

Nicolò nodded, with that delicious blush spreading from his cheeks down to his chest.

He started at his lips, licking into his mouth until Nicolò lost his breath. He peppered kisses on his face until Nicolò chuckled. He flicked his tongue at his nipples until they were both hard. He rubbed his cheek and chin on his pale stomach, teasing the skin with the coarse texture of his beard until Nicolò was pushing his hips off the bed and against him. He mouthed his erection through the leather of his pants until Nicolò begged him to undress him.

It took little time at all to undo the laces of his pants so he could tug them down the length of his legs and toss them over the edge. They fell to the dusty floor with a thud and just like that they were forgotten as if they had never existed.

Yusuf was kneeling upright between Nicolò’s legs. He admired him in all his glory. His hair fanned out on the pillow. His fingers twisting into the sheets. His nipples glistening with Yusuf’s saliva. Muscles of his abdomen tensing with each sharp breath. His pink cock laying heavily on his belly. A hunger in his eyes that was a reflection of Yusuf’s own need.

Yusuf decided he would sketch him like that a thousand times over - just like that.

He caressed his hands from the knees up the thighs to the apex of his legs and took his heated length into his hand. Nicolò keened at the touch, thrusting his hips up into it. “Feel good?” He was being facetious again.

Nicolò moaned. “So good. I’ve touched myself like this so many times, but your hand feels so much better than mine.”

It was Yusuf’s turn to moan. It was the first time a _virgin_ had such an effect on him. He bowed down, not unlike when he was saying his prayers and swiped his tongue over the tip of his arousal, tasting a pearl of precome. Fingers buried into his curls and kept his head at his groin, causing him to snicker. Yusuf hadn’t taken a man into his mouth before, a sense of humiliation always stopping him, but with Nicolò he was eager. He took the head into his mouth, suckling on it gently.

While Nicolò’s hand in his hair had been pushing him down earlier, now he was pulling him up. That gesture, combined with the trembling of his thighs and the cries he let out freely, made it clear to Yusuf he was close to his release again. He would give into the urge to take him into his mouth completely some other time.

He sat back on his haunches and undid the laces of his own trousers and pushed the pants down to mid-thigh. His cock sprang upright and he took himself in his hand. He stroked himself for his audience of one. Nicolò’s mouth had fallen open. His eyes were half-lidded. When he licked his lips Yusuf’s cock twitched in his fist. “Some other time,” He appeased the want he recognized in that expression. “At the moment I won’t fare any better at staying my orgasm than you if I were to feel your lips and your tongue on me.” He kissed a path back up his body and let their cocks slide together between their stomach as he captured Nicolò’s mouth anew. He loved the feel of Nicolò’s hands in his hair and in his beard while they kissed.

“Yusuf, _please_.”

A Christian priest begging a Kaysanite warrior to take his virginity… He was pretty sure he’d heard a crass joke along those lines once, in a life rather left forgotten.

Not wanting to keep either of them waiting for much longer, he put two fingers against Nicolò’s lips. “Wet them for me.” Nicolò opened his mouth for him and raised his head off the pillow to take the fingers into the wet, hot cavern. The thought of one day having his cock inside Nicolò’s wanton mouth was driving Yusuf dangerously close to completion. He supposed it was only logical, with how long their need had been allowed to build up.

Satisfied his fingers were slick, he drew them out. Nicolò chased after them, raising his head up more. Yusuf replaced the emptiness with his tongue. But Nicolò’s head fell back onto the pillow when those fingers pressed against the tight opening between his legs.

“Is this still what you want?”

“More than ever.”

He worked the fingers into him one by one. Moving quicker than he planned only because his love begged him to. He curled his fingers against a bundle of nerves inside of him and the reaction was instant. He sucked in a breath, clenched his muscles around the fingers, and snapped his thighs together, squeezing Yusuf’s waist. A ripping sound alerted Yusuf to the fact that they would need to barter for new sheets. He massaged the spot until the sensation was less sharp and Nicolò’s entire body relaxed. His thighs falling open wide. His moans were like hymns.

“What is _that_?”

Yusuf leaned down to place a kiss on a creamy thigh. “It is the reason I believe the gods would not begrudge us for loving each other. Why else were we created with his place inside of us, that gives so much pleasure when one man makes love to another?”

“Uhhh, nevermind I asked. Please stop talking, Yusuf... I love your voice, I love your words, but _please_ stop talking. Kiss me instead. Fill me instead.”

He was happy to oblige. He pulled out his fingers and spat into his palm twice. He spread his saliva onto his arousal. In addition to new sheets, they would need to buy oils as well. Yusuf settled on top of the other man. One leg he folded around his waist, the other he hooked over his shoulder, giving him access as he leaned forward. The one knee touched to Nicolò’s chest as Yusuf kissed him sweetly once more. He felt the man tense when the tip of his cock pressed against his opening.

With a thick voice Nicolò said: “It… _feels_ even bigger than it looks.” 

“It will feel good, I promise.” He did not speak from personal experience, but he remembered the kind of reactions he elicited in others. “You will see the stars.” He pressed his hips forwards and applied more and more pressure, holding his cock straight with one hand, the other supporting his weight. The pressure built until the tight ring of muscles opened up to him.

Nicolò clamped his eyes shut. “Ah! It feels much, _much_ bigger…”

“Is it too much? Do you want-“

“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”

He eased forward and finally he was fully sheathed by Nicolò’s body. He rested his forehead against Nicolò’s and felt each puff of his breath on his face. His cock was pulsing and the warm walls that gripped him were clenching and releasing so pleasurably it was nearly enough to milk his seed out of him. He moved his free hand to clutch a quivering thigh.

Arms looped around his neck and pulled him closer still, pulled his face into the pillow, next to Nicolò’s head. Moans were loud in his ear and vibrated in his chest.

This man. This man has killed him so many times. And only now is Yusuf truly brought back to life. He feels more alive than ever. He hoped his love felt the same. 

Nicolò relaxed under him. His breathing evening out, his body was no longer resisting him but welcoming him. He purposefully tightened his muscles around Yusuf’s cock, drawing moans from both of them. “You promised me the stars, love. Help me find the stars.”

He bit into the shoulder he had once cleaved his scimitar into and lapped at the skin until the marks were fully healed. All the while Nicolò shuddered with soft laughter. As soon as Yusuf moved his hips, however, the laughter died.

The rhythm was built up carefully. At first fingers ghosted over the expanse of his back but as the pace became more brutal, they started clawing at his skin. Each thrust punched a cry out of Nicolò and it harmonized with the sounds Yusuf could not bite back. He had to pause a couple of times to help their lovemaking with more spit and the interruptions were the one thing that made them last just a little longer than would be absolutely embarrassing.

Nicolò was crying out and weeping with pleasure. The name of his Lord tumbled from his lips. Yusuf didn’t think he was even aware of it, so lost to sensation. For once, Nicolò was out of his head, free to enjoy his body and the pleasures it awarded him under Yusuf’s touch.

He had let Nicolò close his eyes as he was overwhelmed, but soon he pleaded him: “Open your eyes, my Nicolò. Look at me.” The bright orbs revealed themselves and Yusuf groaned. “Just like that. Keep looking at me just like that.”

The flames from the fire pit below bathed Nicolò’s body in an orange glow. His skin glistened with sweat as their passion, combined with the fire, made the temperature build. His hair was dark and wet. There wasn’t much left of the smell of soap that clung to him earlier. There was a time when Yusuf would have said he reeked when he was sweaty like that. He couldn’t imagine how his nose could have ever betrayed him so. He breathed in the smell of Nicolò greedily. They would have to make love on the new sheets right away, so they would smell exactly like this. He wouldn’t part with the ripped ones they laid on top of now before then.

Feeling the end approach, Yusuf grabbed at Nicolò’s cock. It stifled the last of the man’s cries and all he had left were whimpers. After a few tugs, light touches of his thumb over the wet head was enough to make him come. The first spurt of semen landed on his chest and the rest dribbled down on his stomach and Yusuf’s hand.

The rapture on his face was all Yusuf needed to achieve his own release. His hips stuttered momentarily but he continued to fuck through his orgasm, getting a preview of how wonderful it would be next time when they’d have oil, as his come made the slide of his flesh inside Nicolò more smooth.

Their open mouths were together, exchanging breaths, neither being in their right mind enough to kiss.

Yusuf froze, holding onto the moment as long as possible, but it slipped from his grasp as time always did. Inevitably his arm threatened to give way. He reared upright and pulled his cock out, being slow and gentle in the aftermath, holding back a surge of guilt that he may have been too rough, that he had lost control.

He kept his arms hooked under Nicolò’s knees and curled in on himself to kiss the top of one. He held his legs around his waist, holding him still through the aftershocks of his climax that made his body quake. He sucked in breaths unevenly.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” He let out a giggle that Yusuf supposed he could take as an answer and it was a relief. “No. No… What is the opposite of hurt?”

“Heal?”

“Yes, nnnn… you healed me, Yusuf.”

Yusuf trailed his gaze down, away from his sated expression. He watched the milky white passion on the belly and soon his own release dripped out and into the cleft of Nicolò’s ass. It was the most beautiful blasphemy he had ever seen. When he met the bright gaze again, Nicolò rolled his eyes at Yusuf’s self-satisfied smirk. “Hmmm… My deliciously filthy Christian.” That earned him a smack against his stomach hard enough to sting but he laughed because of it and then so did Nicolò.

“Brute,” He said in return.

He freed himself from Nicolò’s legs and collapsed next to him. “ _Your_ brute.”

“Yes. Mine.” He used a corner of the sheets to wipe himself clean – more or less – and then twisted around, facing away from Yusuf. He reached back, his hand blindly searching for Yusuf’s and when he found it he tugged at it until Yusuf got the hint and rolled onto his side to spoon behind him. Nicolò drew his hand up to his chest and held it there.

“Did I make you see stars?”

Nicolò hummed. “Brighter than ever.”

Yusuf did not need to worry about the new sheets smelling clean for too long. There was no stopping the flood. His Nicolò was insatiable, having finally discovered and made peace with his sexuality.

* * *

**2020**

“Are you still with me?” Joe asked in a whisper as he concluded this part of the story. Nicky had closed his eyes somewhere around the time he was watching Sahra and Joe wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep or not, but continued to speak anyway. Knowing Nicky, the sudden absence of Joe’s voice would have awoken him.

“Always,” Was the reply and bright eyes fluttered open.

They lay facing each other, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the warmth of the other’s breath on their face.

“What version of this are you going to tell Nile?”

Joe chuckled. “Think she’ll be shocked?”

“What will shock her more than anything is that we didn’t even French kiss the first year.”

Joe laughed. “Yeah. I think she’d use the phrase “That escalated quickly” for how matters evolved after that.”

“Hmm.. you turned me into a very horny man.”

“Sensual. You became a sensual man.”

“Always the best words,” He sighed.

Joe folded his hand against Nicky’s jaw and stroked his thumb back and forth on his cheek. “You inspire me.” He closed the distance between them, pressing their chests and lips together. The story had left them both half-hard, but Joe knew Nicky wasn’t ready yet. If he was, he would have interrupted the story and climbed on top of him.

They kissed _sensually_. Theirs hands explored each other. Joe saw the stars when their arousals further hardened and pressed together between their stomach.

Nicky moved his mouth to Joe’s neck, he seared a kiss onto the skin and then held him tightly. His hands and his hips stopped moving.

Joe hugged him back, content to just have his love close.

“You’re so big, Joe,” Nicky commented with a tone that was meant to lighten the mood. “I’m surprised I dared to let you take me that first time.”

He chuckled. “I’m not that much bigger than you.”

“No, but my cock wasn’t going into my ass.”

He adjusted his hold on him, linking his arms behind his back. “I’ve had yours in me more than a couple of times and it is wonderful.”

“Mmmm yes it is.”

Joe waited. Their manhoods softened between them. He thought again that maybe Nicky had fallen asleep. His body was so relaxed, melted against him. His breathing was deep and even. He snaked a hand up to brush through his hair. It was so much shorter now than it was in Malta, which was so much shorter than in was in Jerusalem – when they were there the first time and when they were there the second time. But Joe always loved running his fingers through the silken strands, so different from his own hair. In turn Nicky loved his curls. The man never said as much, but it was apparent in how often Joe would wake up to Nicky – or Nicolò, or Nico – playing with his hair, or petting his fingers through his beard.

He simply enjoyed happy memories as he held the man he loved so dearly. He knew Nicky would be alright and they would make many more happy memories. He just needed time.

“I’m sorry we’re back here, Joe,” Nicky muttered into the crook of his neck.

“Hm?”

“Back to you waiting for me.”

He curled his fingers into his hair. Part of him wanted to pull back to let Nicky see his face, see his earnest expression, but they were so wrapped up in each other that that in itself was a comfort he did not want to steal away from either of them. “Don’t apologize. I will always wait for you. I would wait for all eternity.”

They held each other for a long time and then Nicky turned in his arms so they could fall asleep together the way they had for centuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter Joe is finally going to tell Nile why Nicky got all messed up since Keane shot him in the mouth. It's going to get dark. So I hope you enjoyed this ray of sunshine before the shadows come crawling in. Gotta deliver on that "Angst" tag ;)
> 
> Question of the day (something silly): Would you prefer Nicky to be clean shaven again in The Old Guard sequel (assuming it will come) or have Luca’s typical scruff?  
> Because I read a funny fanfic here (of course I forgot the title, sorry) where the crew explains/shows Nile that Nicky has always shaved, throughout history, because he’s unbearably hot if he grows out some stubble and… Yeah... Kinda have to agree, lol. Like, Luca for GQ Italia is *chef’s kiss*, but it's like "too cool" for Nicky. I dunno.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, please note that the story will earn its RAPE/NON-CON WARNING in this chapter. 
> 
> Full disclosure: the rape itself is not described, but the immediate aftermath (including an inanimate object inserted into the mouth) is, as well as graphic violence and temporary character death. 
> 
> If you wish to skip this part, stop reading immediately after the oral sex scene and then continue when the story returns to the present. The note at the end of the chapter gives a summary of what you "need" to know. Although you can even skip that too, I don't think it's necessary to understand the story.
> 
> (So sorry if you saw this chapter appear and disappear yesterday. It didn't seem to be working on my end, the story didn't pop up at the top of the page, as it should after an update. Since it was 3 AM for me and I figured something went wrong, I just deleted it to try again today. If you have the bookmarked, you might have already read this chapter, since apparently it did work as it got a few comments overnight. Sorry for the hassle!)

**2020**

When Joe woke up, his arms were empty and instantly his chest was too. He shot upright, alarmed at the cold patch of mattress next to him. “Nicky?” He listened if he could hear him in their ensuite bathroom, but it was silent.

Joe wasn’t one to rouse easily, but Nicky escaping his embrace was something that rarely went unnoticed. He supposed it attested to how emotionally draining the past few weeks since their narrow escape had been. Also, staying up most of the night retelling their romance didn’t help him get his rest, enjoyable as that part of the story had been.

With the way his heart was pumping adrenaline, he was out of bed within seconds, stepping into clean underwear and grabbing a shirt which he put on as he went.

The doors to Andy’s and Nile’s bedrooms were still shut. As he walked further down the hallway, the fear left his body. Somebody was rummaging around in the kitchen and delicious smells wafted up to him. With a smile, Joe made his way down the stairs on his tiptoes. He paused in the archway to the kitchen to watch his lover cook.

French toast. Joe’s favorite. Second only to Nicky himself.

He feasted on the sight of him. His Nicky was a simple man when it came to fashion – had been ever since the medieval times. But it was this simplicity that Joe loved. A real jeans-T-shirt-hoodie kind of guy. He was so comfortable. Of course it was too warm for hoodies now.

So there he stood. Barefoot. Blue jeans. A grey shirt. _Joe’s_ grey shirt. An Italian song played on the radio and Nicky shyly sang along with the chorus.

He knocked on the frame of the archway to alert him to his presence.

Nicky didn’t even turn around, knowing it was him. “Good morning, love.”

“It wasn’t when I woke up without you in my arms,” He said, walking up to stand behind him. He greedily breathed in the smell of breakfast. “But it sure is now.” He put his hands on Nicky’s waist and placed a kiss to the side of his neck. “I thought we ate the last of the eggs.”

“I went to get some.”

Joe hummed his appreciation.

The moment was interrupted by what sounded like someone pretty much stumbling down the stairs.

They turned to watch Nile make her entrance. She looked a mess, as she did every morning, but she perked up when she recognized what was for breakfast. “French toast? Awesome.”

Andy looked even worse when she came downstairs and she couldn’t even tell what was for breakfast because she couldn’t breathe through her nose. She looked miserable as she slumped at the kitchen table.

“Oh, boss… I think you have a cold,” Joe diagnosed. He walked up to her and touched his hand to her forehead. She was burning up. “I don’t really know the procedure here. Nile?”

“Lots of fluids, vitamins, and sleep.”

Immediately Nicky poured a glass of orange juice. He didn’t put it on the table in front of her, knowing she would ignore it then. He held it out to her, waiting for her to take it. There was a short battle of the wills as they stared at each other. Andy was the one to cave. Andy was always the one to cave when it came to Nicky. She took a sip and made a face. “Can you at least make it a mimosa?”

The Italian didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Mortality is a drag,” She complained and took a big gulp from the glass.

“Well, this isn’t gonna kill you,” Nile admonished. “And since it’s not going to kill her, can I just be happy that there will be no Krav Maga training today?” She looked up at Nicky and Joe like a child looking up at parents. “This woman has made muscles hurt that I didn’t even know I have.”

“Wait until she gets you started on Capoeira, then you’ll have my sympathy,” Joe said.

“She’ll still have to train while I’m sick, we can’t waste time.”

“ _Excuse me_.” Nile quirked an eyebrow at her. “You gave them a _hundred_ years in Malta!”

“And they trained every single day, left to fight in Europe, learned seven languages and went to fight in the second and third crusades.” Andy’s tone was flat and dry.

Nile snapped her head up at the two men. “Seriously?”

“I’ll catch you up on the story, don’t worry.” Joe patted her shoulder and then looked at Andy. “I’ll train her today. Something not too hard on those poor muscles of her. Nicky will take care of you.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You’ll love it and you know it.” On some rare occasions over the centuries, Andy had allowed herself to take comfort in Nicky’s closeness, since losing Quynh. She had a different relationship with each of the three male immortals she spent her time with. She commiserated – and _drank_ – with Booker. She laughed and wrestled with Joe. She talked and cuddled with Nicky – well, whenever Joe wasn’t hogging him. “Come on Nile, let’s eat our breakfast. We’ll head to town and I’ll teach you how to pickpocket. And tomorrow I’ll spend the day with Andy and Nicky can teach you how to drive a car.”

“I can drive a car.”

“Not like Nicky you can’t.”

They enjoyed breakfast –all but Andy. With every bite Joe praised Nicky’s cooking in a different language.

Before he’d drive Nile into town, he wanted to get a workout in. He was fine with waiting for his love to be ready, but until then he did have a lot of _energy_ bottled up.

Nile observed him like he was insane as he performed practiced moves with his scimitar after already exhausting himself doing sprints, pull-ups, push-ups, and planks. “You do this shit for fun, do ya?”

“Have to look good for my man,” He joked, nearly out of breath.

When he was done he lifted up his shirt to wipe sweat off his brow and caught her staring. “Look good?”

“Yeah. Nicky’s a lucky guy.” She grinned at him.

“I’m the lucky one.”

“Oh would you give it a rest, you sap.” She followed him into the house.

In the living room they found Nicky stretched out on the couch, with Andy tucked between him and the backrest. Her arm draped over his chest, her leg draped over his. She was fast asleep. Nicky held a book above his face with one hand and with the other he played with her hair. To turn a page he didn’t take his fingers out of her hair but instead laid the book on his stomach, freeing the hand that had been holding it to flip the page. Then he raised it up again.

He was such a loving soul.

Joe shot a look over his shoulder at Nile and whispered: “Told you I’m the lucky one.” When he looked back he found Nicky’s gaze trained on him, one eyebrow arched with a question as he hadn’t overheard what had been said.

Joe soundlessly walked over to the couch so as not to disturb Andy and he bent down to place a kiss on Nicky’s forehead.

“Hn. You stink,” Andy muttered, scrunching up her face before nuzzling her nose against Nicky’s chest.

“And you’re getting snot all over his shirt.”

“It’s not his shirt, it’s _yours_. So I don’t care.”

A sad smile tugged at Joe’s lips. He loved Nicky so much, but he also loved Andy so, so much. In a few decades, she would be gone. It would feel like the blink of an eye. They would all miss her terribly. Then the realization flooded him that he might have to miss his Nicky one day too. He couldn’t linger on that, it would cripple him. He kissed his lips this time, even though Andy blindly swatted at him and told him: “Go away, sweaty beast.”

He took a shower and then retrieved Nile from the kitchen where he found her snacking on cornflakes straight out of the box. The girl had an admirable appetite.

He didn’t drive them to the nearest town, which was only ten minutes away. They did their shopping there and Nile might get recognized when she would inevitably get caught pickpocketing. He drove them to the next town over, an hour away.

When Nile caught on that they missed the exit for their regular stomping grounds, she realized they had a longer journey ahead of them, so she pestered him to continue the story, making it a point to turn off the radio.

Joe laughed. “Right. Where did we leave off?”

“Andy and Quynh had just left your dumb ass to figure out you’re in love with _Nicolò_.”

During the car ride he gave her an edited version of the story he had recounted to Nicky in bed last night. She begged him for the details, but he refused, joking she would eventually walk in on them doing something unspeakable and he wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. As expected, she was shocked – and disbelieving – that they did nothing more than kiss for a year after confessing their love for one another. One of them through words, the other through actions.

She didn’t believe him on “the no-tongue thing” as she eloquently put it, until Joe pointed out:

“There is no more severe internalized homophobia than a twelfth century, Christian priest falling in love with a ‘barbarian’.”

She nodded at that, grimly, and didn’t doubt him again. The story of Nicky being whipped for kissing a boy had made her eyes well up with tears.

Joe ended the story on a funny anecdote to lift her spirits as they approached the town: “One night, Nicky rode me with such enthusiasm that the framework of the mezzanine collapsed in on itself. We laughed until the dust cloud settled and then picked up right where we left off.”

She intermittently laughed at that thought the rest of the morning. She could start laughing even while running away from people chasing after her when they had caught on she had stolen their wallet.

Her reaction reminded him of when he had told Andy about this; about their ‘strong house’ falling apart because of their fucking.

Yeah, they wrecked quite a few beds over the course of history…

Before they went to lunch, Joe bought a large envelope, put all of the loot they had managed to steal into it and went to the post office to have it sent to the nearest police station, so all belongings could be returned to their owners. He explained to Nile that they didn’t need to steal petty cash. Their work as mercenaries paid very well and they had healthy bank accounts even Copley hadn’t been able to trace. Pickpocketing was just a good skill to have for certain missions, to get access keys and security codes.

“Oh, so you’re buying me lunch, then?”

“Yeah, kid, I’ll buy you lunch. What are you in the mood for?”

Half an hour later, Joe grumbled eating his Burger King menu. “We can’t tell Nicky about this. He will never accept you into the family.”

“Family…” Nile repeated the word. “It’s odd but… even after only a month, it really does feel like you are all family.”

He smiled. “I’m glad.”

“I can only imagine what it’s like after… you know… say… two hundred years.”

Ah, she wanted to talk about Booker. “You get pretty close after two centuries, yeah.”

She put her burger down and wrung her hands.

“You don’t understand why I insisted on such a long exile,” He surmised.

“No… No.” She looked at him with those studious eyes of her. “I don’t understand why he did what he did. I mean, _logically_ , I get it, but still it doesn’t make sense. I guess I-… I wanted to apologize to you. I got a bit heated with you at the bar.”

He chuckled at the euphemism. It was the first and only time she had gotten mad at him.

“When I suggested to let him off with an apology, I was outta line. I just felt sorry for him and for Andy. She didn’t want it to be that long and I get why. She won’t be around a hundred years from now. So I kinda just took her side without considering that… even though he shot her, you and Nicky were the ones who took the brunt of his betrayal. I mean, fuck. Being strapped to a table, watching each other get experimented on? That’s fucking sick.”

Joe let her ramble, let her get it all out. It was clear she had been burdening herself with a lot, without them realizing and he resented himself for it. They couldn’t let her slip into darkness the way Booker had. They had to be more attentive.

Nile continued: “The better I know you two, the more I see how much you love each other, the more it makes me sick to think about what was done to you. I don’t know what happened, really, but obviously it got to you and Nicky. I thought he was just sick, in the bathroom at the hotel. Fuck, it didn’t even occur to me that we don’t get sick anymore, so I can only imagine... I- I feel guilty for not hating Booker for it. I still have this inexcusable pity for him, but you were right to exile him. I can’t even imagine how you could ever trust him again.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty. And I don’t want you to hate Booker. I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“Two _hundred_ years, Nile,” He reminded her. “Booker is a selfish fool but he is my brother. And he’s yours too, if you let him... It didn’t go how he planned.” He chuckled bitterly. “Things hardly ever go the way Booker plans. Which is why we leave that to Andy.”

They had allowed Booker to speak at the bar, before sending him outside so they could decide on his punishment. He told them what his intentions had been.

When Booker had been trying to find Copley, while Andy was in Afghanistan to retrieve Nile, he lied when he said he couldn’t find him. Copley had been the one to reach out to him and told him why he and Merrick were after the four of them. Copley pled for them to turn themselves in. They would take blood and tissue samples of all of them and set them free – promised that would be that. Copley hadn’t been lying to Booker, it was what he himself believed.

Booker knew none of them would agree to it. Everyone agreed with Nicky: that their immortality was divine, not a mutation. No good would come from studying their DNA. But Booker had to believe it was possible, had to hold onto hope that he had found a way out of this life that he had no chosen. In his desperation, he made a rash decision and told Copley about the Charlie safe house. He made a deal with him: he would give the team up to Copley and Merrick, they would get their samples and they would get to keep Booker for experimentation – but _only_ Booker. In exchange, their scientists wouldn’t just work on figuring out how to transfer the healing abilities to others, but how to end it as well.

When Andy wasn’t there during the initial raid, the soldiers left Booker behind on purpose, as a plant. Copley relayed a message to him when they were in the cave: Merrick would hold him to his end of the bargain. He wanted samples of all four of them. If he didn’t get that, he would keep Nicky and Joe, forever. So Booker set the rest of the plan in motion, leading Andy into the trap at Copley’s home.

It was never his intention for matters to unfold as they did. For Nicky and Joe to be tortured. For the four of them to get strapped to examination tables when it was supposed to be just him.

He didn’t tell them because he expected forgiveness in return. His intentions didn’t change what ended up happening. And the timing of it all was poor anyway. It was too soon for Joe to feel anything but raw rage, especially after how Nile had found Nicky in the bathroom.

Joe wasn’t ready to forgive Booker then and he wasn’t ready to forgive him now. But he knew that he would, eventually. And some time after that – a long time, centuries – he would learn to trust him again and he hoped Nile would trust the Frenchman too. Because that was the only way they would survive, if they all held onto each other; held onto this family.

“You don’t have to feel sorry for Andy either. For her missing him. She’s in touch with him.”

Nile frowned at that.

“Yeah, she thinks I don’t know, but Copley got her and Book secured phones. They’ve called a couple of times.”

“Doesn’t that piss you off? You wanted him exiled for a hundred years and you had the right to make that call.”

“Booker should be punished. Booker _is_ being punished. Andy shouldn’t get hurt in the crossfire. Like you said, she won’t be around for another century. So I won’t hold it against her. I wasn’t planning on making Book sit out his entire sentence, Andy knows that, but even if she loses ten years with him, it’s too long. Too much of what she had left.” 

“Pfff…” She slumped back in her seat. “You some kind of saint or something?”

“No.” He smirked. “I’ve just dated a priest for a very long time. Finish your Happy Meal, kiddo.”

“Happy Meal is _McDonald’s_. This is Burger King. Honestly, just when I was so impressed by your wisdom…”

Nile expected more training after lunch, but he surprised her with some impromptu shopping instead. Andy had been working Nile hard and he understood why. She wouldn’t have much time with Nile, especially not much time while her body was still as fit as it was. She had a lot of things to teach their newly-minted sister. But Nile had made a good point: Nicky and Joe had been allowed some time to get used to the whole idea of immortality and to spending it together. It had been a daunting thing and being able to push it to the backs of their minds and spend afternoons reading and drawing, instead of preparing for a long life of combat, helped them adjust.

Joe would talk to Andy about it in a few months’ time, once that hurriedness she felt now had subsided a bit and she’d be more open to reason. After all, Andy had some adjusting of her own to do. She had to adjust to this mortal life and to the idea that she would never see Quynh again. Joe knew she had always held out hope that one day the iron maiden would have rusted enough for it to crumble around her and she would have made her way back to shore somehow and would find them using the dreams she’d have of Booker, just as Booker dreamt of her. One of the burdens that had driven him to desperation.

And when Andy was ready to give Nile a break and to give herself a break, Joe and Nicky would take a break too and finally go back to Malta again.

They had returned to Malta many times over the course of history. Sometimes for only a few days. Sometimes they spent several years there to recharge.

Following Quynh’s disappearance, Andy _gave them Malta_. The island had once belonged to her and Quynh and Nicky and Joe – once Yusuf and Nicolò – were only guests there. But without Quynh, Andy had no desire to return. So Malta became theirs. It became their touchstone. It was where they wiped the slate clean from whatever horrors they had seen and had failed to prevent. In Malta, they always found their passion again and their lust for life.

The last time they had ever been there was 1820. Booker had just come into their lives but wasn’t just not adapting well to immortality – as he evidently never would -, but also wasn’t adapting well to them. To them being a couple, specifically. Whenever he was drunk – which was most of the time – he used homophobic slurs freely. _Nicolas and Joseph_ needed to get away from that and Andy had assured them they could and that she would sort Booker out. Booker came to them in 1822, to fetch them for a new mission and to apologize. He became their brother and never used those insults again.

They hadn’t had the chance to go back since, but Nicky had suggested they should, so they would.

It was that simple.

Just a matter of time.

The time in Malta his love had been thinking about, was the few weeks they had spent there in the 17th century, Joe knew.

Their regenerative ability meant no refractory period between orgasms and they abused that perk.

Joseph had tied Nicolas up – something he had learned in Japan - and had fucked him all through the night and the next morning for good measure. Joseph drew countless orgasms out of his lover; making a mess of him, wrecking him more and more, while Nicolas begged him not to stop, to never stop. They exhausted themselves in the most pleasurable way possible. They needed the rest of their time in Malta to recuperate, spending the days sleeping and eating in bed. Nicolas reading and Joseph drawing his memories of that night.

He still had a sketchbook stowed away in Andy’s cave, full of drawings of Nicky tied up in intricate knots of rope. It was a good thing Nile hadn’t stumbled upon it.

Joe and Nile bought new clothes for all of them. He let her pick, not making any judgments with regards to her choices. With one exception, when she held up a flowy dress to give to Andy.

“It’s a good thing you can’t die.”

They bought a new Bluetooth speaker for at the house, to replace the crackling radio, and a gaming console with a number of video games. It endeared Joe that all the games Nile picked out were non-violent. In spite of being a soldier, she was not comfortable with killing and unlike what Andy expected, she might never truly be. But Nicky could help her with that. He could relate to that.

At the end of the afternoon, Joe dragged her back to the car. He wasn’t going to skip another one of Nicky’s home-cooked meals in favor of fast food. 

Nile sat in the passenger seat, looking very happy with the e-reader she had gotten. She had plans to download all kinds of cheesy romance novels. “Nothing will ever be as good as my bedtime story though,” She said with a smirk as the car pulled out of the parking lot.

Joe wrung his fingers around the steering wheel. “About that. I actually want to tell you a part of the story now that I don’t want to tell in front of Nicky.” From the corner of his eye he caught her looking at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze.

“Why?”

“Because I have to hold onto hope that if we live long enough, his memories of this part will fade…” He gritted his teeth. “If people would just fucking allow him to forget.”

She swallowed audibly. “Merrick?”

“Keane.”

“The guy whose neck you brutally snapped?” She sounded proud now, even though she was not yet accustomed to killing. She may not be cold-blooded, but at least she had some sense of vengeance in her.

“I would have prolonged his death if spending a hundred lifetimes bathed in Nicky’s kindness hadn’t washed out my vindictive streak.”

“What happened? What did he do?” The prideful tone was gone, replaced with fear.

“Something personal. A wound even we can’t heal.”

“Jesus…” Nile breathed. “Did he-? Did Keane-?”

“No. No!” Joe realized his mistake and he shot her a look. “No, Nicky’s wounds are old. But what Keane did opened them up.”

She wasn’t reassured in the least. “I overheard you say he shot him.”

He nodded. “We’ve been shot many times. But it’s how he did it. He didn’t even use his gun at first when he came for us. He could have just shot us right away and tied us up before we’d get the chance to heal but he took joy in beating us up while we were choking on tear gas.” One by one he took his hands off the steering wheel to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans. “When he shot Nicky… he put the gun in his mouth.”

“Shit,” Nile said, without even understanding the significance of it.

“It would be a violation to anyone, but for Nicky-… I need to tell you the story behind it.”

“If it’s personal, would Nicky want me to know?”

Joe offered her a smile. “He trusts you and he was the first to consider you family, when you had only appeared in our dreams. It will help you understand him and understand me, and I hope it will inspire you to trust us as we do you. I don’t wish it upon you, but I fear you, too, will face a time when one of these deaths will get to you. You’ll want to return to _your Malta_ and hide away from the world. Hell, you would even be welcome in _our Malta_.” He jutted out his elbow to nudge her. “And you can tell us everything, just as we tell you everything. There is no shame and no need to suffer alone. These hurts we carry together. We share things, okay? Booker made the mistake of not doing that. We are not going to repeat that mistake.”

Nile nodded. 

“Besides, _I_ need you to know. Just like I needed Andy, Quyhn, and Book to know. Because whenever something threatens to bring back those memories for Nicky and I’m not there – for whatever reason - I need you to fight with that fury that I know you have. And I need you to seek vengeance on behalf of me.”

He took his eyes off the road to look at her poignantly. 

She nodded again, solemnly, making him that promise.

“I don’t want you to mistake my protectiveness over Nicky for him being weak.” His voice was already turning hoarse.

“I wouldn’t. Not ever. I’m a child, I’m not stupid. I see his strength.”

He nodded at that. “When Quynh and Andy were captured and put on trial for witchcraft, Nicky and I were desperate to find them and as weeks went by we became careless in our desperation and we got caught too. _Exposed_ too. Creativity makes humanity’s cruelty limitless, although the classics still hurt the worst.

“One night they came for him, peeled him out of my arms and dragged him away. They burned him alive all night long, until there was no timber left to keep the fire going... He healed too quickly for death to even give him a minute of respite. I listened to his screaming. All night, Nile. I can still hear it. He said it’s the worst pain he has ever experienced. But when they brought him back into the cell, naked and black with soot, it was he who comforted me. Wiped away my tears, told me everything would be alright.” He didn’t even realize he was crying until Nile touched his shoulder and pulled him out of the past and into the presence and he felt the wetness on his cheek, running into his beard.

He scrubbed his face with one hand. He knew he couldn’t continue to drive while telling the story so he found a small country road branching off from the main road and stopped the car in the grass shoulder.

It took him a minute to regain his composure and to steady himself before getting into the story he needed to tell her.

“He has endured so much without letting it wear him down, without letting it hollow him out. Almost a thousand years and he’s still such a sweet, innocent soul. That is Nicky’s strength; makes him stronger than any of us. But one death did get to him. One death nearly _killed_ him. Nearly killed us both.”

* * *

**1175**

They couldn’t wait in Malta until Andréa and Quynh would return, no matter how much they wanted to. The villagers would grow suspicious of their ageless faces. So they left the island in 1109, after commemorating ten years of knowing each other, to travel through Europe. They would hone their skills as Andréa would want them to, so they would be a valuable help to the two female warriors once they would meet again in Malta at the turn of the century.

They sold Sahra to a good man in the village. She would live out the last of her days as a horse they would teach children to ride on. With the money they could afford passage on a trader ship to Syracuse. On board, Nicolò wept over having to say goodbye to the horse. Yusuf had tried to comfort him, but all his pretty words failed him when his love pointed out: “This is what it is going to be like for centuries: saying goodbye to what we grow to love.”

In Europe there was no shortage of opportunities to learn. Bandits scoured the land, attacking farmers and traveling merchants. Nicolò and Yusuf died often, protecting the innocents, but awoke as better warriors every single time. Nicolò was a reluctant killer, except when it came to protecting Yusuf. He was glorious with his sword and with his bow.

Aside from the chance to improve their combat skills, their traveling also exposed them to all the languages and dialects of the continent. Yusuf became fluent in all of them. Nicolò became… well… _understandable_ in all of them. Yusuf teased him for his accent a lot, he just loved it so much. Every language Nicolò spoke just sounded so Nicolò coming out of his mouth, like he took ownership of all of them, as he had taken ownership of Yusuf’s heart.

For a few decades Yusuf became Juris, as he was light-skinned enough to pass as Greek when he shaved, which made for easier travel than as an Arab named Yusuf. Nicolò hated the new name and refused to use it. He hated the absence of the beard too.

When they made love in the privacy of the night, Nicolò would whisper and moan and cry out his name over and over: Yusuf Al-Kaysani.

In France in 1147 they caught wind of the start of the second crusade. It made them both sick. They hadn’t decided yet if they were going to go, until Yusuf woke up one night in their tent without Nicolò in his arms. He scrambled out of the tent into the downpour of the storm that rolled over the countryside. He found his love in a clearing, swinging his sword in practiced movements that had lost all their elegance in his rage and despair. He wielded the sword like he was fighting the rain itself, or fighting ghosts that swarmed him.

Yusuf used his scimitar to stop the longword, hitting it out of Nicolò’s hand and then he dropped his own blade into the grass and embraced the man he loved.

“We must go,” Nicolò said, barely heard over the roar of thunder.

“I know.”

They traveled back to the Holy Land where they had met. Yusuf was Yusuf once more, leaving the name Juris behind and he regrew his beard. Nicolò remained Nicolò because there was no passing as anyone else and if they ever got in trouble with crusaders, their best bet was to adopt the ruse that Yusuf was his prisoner, or an Arab traitor who served him. It hadn’t worked out so well when they had tried that the other way around in 1099, but it was their only option.

Sharing a horse, they traveled through the desert, accompanying caravans of merchants, protecting them as they went from one village to the next. Nicolò’s Arabic finally got better and Yusuf almost missed how it once was, but it helped him earn the trust of the people they were trying to protect. He played with the Muslim children the way he had played with the children of Malta. What also made an impact was his knowledge of the Quran and his respect for the religion, even though Nicolò was no longer religious himself; he had faith in God, just not in men.

Combined with the fact that they saved countless of lives from the attacks of rogue crusaders and native bandits, people accepted Nicolò and didn’t give the two men much grief for sharing a tent and a horse together.

Yusuf would tell Nicolò stories, while the man sat behind him in the saddle, or while Yusuf lay behind him at night. He would fall asleep listening to Yusuf’s tales. Things he made up to entertain him, knowing he missed his books. It was at this time that Yusuf grew a knack for ‘embellishing’ stories – sometimes outright lying – just to get a laugh out of the other man. He had such a wonderful laugh. Yusuf wasn’t satisfied until he made him laugh so hard he would snort.

Even at the end of the second crusade in 1150, peace did not return to the region. So they staid and continued on as they had been. They went back and forth between Antioch and Ascalon dozens of times. The existence of nomads suited them well. They never spent long enough in one place or with one group of people for anyone to grow suspicious. They had become such good fighters that they rarely died. When they did, they would promptly leave and go far, to avoid running into the same merchants who had seen either of them fall.

In 1175, they decided to head towards Alexandria after a raid in the night had left Yusuf dead and several men had seen him revive. While on the run from that group, they ran into a caravan that they had been a part of fifteen years prior. The Holy Land wasn’t big enough for them to disappear.

So they planned to go to Alexandria and to the village just South of there, where they had buried villagers decades earlier, to see what had become of it. Hoping to see it rebuilt. If not, perhaps they would rebuild it themselves. Yusuf also wanted to take Nicolò to Cairo, where he had spent much of his youth. He would tell Nicolò about it, no ‘embellishments’ for once.

At midday they passed a river where they bathed, let the horse drink and nibble on grass, and rested during the worst of the heat. Then they traveled on until sunset.

Nicolò set up their tent while Yusuf said his prayer. Then they built a fire together, using wood they had gathered back at the river, where some trees had died when the river had shrunk in the summer. They were nestled between two sand dunes, far removed from any traveling route.

The horse stood by, falling asleep up on her legs. Alqamar and Sahra had been nervous mares, this one was unflappable. They had ridden her into battle many times. During the nights she would just stand and wait, nothing could spook her. Nicolò had named her Salma, an Arabic name meaning ‘peaceful’.

He sat between Yusuf’s legs, leaning back against his chest. Yusuf watched the flames while Nicolò watched the stars, his head tilted back on Yusuf’s shoulder. Their hands were folded together in Nicolò’s lap. Their fingers toyed. Yusuf brushed his knuckles against his groin with purpose. The other hummed and let his thighs fall open.

He kept one hand entwined with Nicolò’s but the other he molded over the swelling bulge between his legs. He nosed through the brown hair. It had grown out again, to the length it was when they first met. It was half up in a bun and half down to his shoulders. He also had that bit of scruff on his jaw and upper lip again. He liked the texture of it whenever Nicolò would kiss a path down his torso before taking Yusuf into his mouth.

The man moaned his name over and over, emboldening Yusuf’s touch. He moved his hand down to cup his balls through his trousers and further down to apply pressure to his taint and his hole. The heat between his legs put the flames to shame.

The pitch of Nicolò’s voice changed. When Yusuf placed his hand over his erection again, he bucked his hips. Recognizing the urgency, Yusuf massaged him deftly through the fabric, all the while nibbling on his ear.

Nicolò came with a shout.

Salma didn’t even blink.

Yusuf chuckled. His eased his lover through his orgasm, his touch gradually becoming more gentle. Then he relocated his hand to the man’s thigh, stroking him there instead.

“Sorry.” Nicolò didn’t sound sorry at all. He was grinning sloppily.

It had been a long time since they had the chance to be intimate, so Yusuf wasn’t about to scold him. He did tease him though. “Now you’ve soiled your trousers. We’ll have to go back to the river first thing tomorrow.” It was only an hour long ride back if they made Salma gallop, whereas the next water source wouldn’t be for about a day and a half – a small village with a well that lay on their route.

Nicolò turned around and locked their lips together but he ended the kiss far too soon and abruptly. “Let me take care of you. Cleanly.”

Yusuf arched an eyebrow at him.

“Stand up, Yusuf. I want to be kneeling before you and worship you.”

 _Oh._ Yusuf smirked. After placing a peck on his lips he got up on his feet, dusting the sand off his clothes.

Nicolò kneeling at his feet was a sight that would always thrill him. Strong hands grabbed his hips and he nuzzled his face into the apex of his legs. Arousal tented the trousers. Yusuf grabbed a handful of Nicolò’s hair at the base of his head. The front laces of his pants were undone and the material was pulled down to his knees. Nicolò’s tongue darted out and licked at the tip of his cock.

“It’s been too long for you to tease me so, my love.”

There was a glint in his eyes and a smirk on his lips but Nicolò was nothing if not merciful. He took the head into his mouth and rubbed his tongue over the most sensitive spots. His eyes slid closed. His expression was one of serenity. To Yusuf, it truly felt like he was being worshipped. Nicolò made it feel like that every time. He loved giving Yusuf pleasure, whether by taking him into his mouth, into his ass, or reversing the roles on occasion when the mood struck them both.

Yusuf wasn’t very good yet at pleasuring Nicolò like this, using his mouth. He couldn’t take much of the length into his mouth without feeling like it was _too much_. Thankfully his lover never had any reason left to want after being fucked thoroughly. And Yusuf’s mouth became skilled at worshiping other parts of his lover’s body.

But Nicolò was masterful at this. He was so relaxed he could swallow all of Yusuf.

The Muslim moaned, watching Nicolò suck on him. Saliva dripped down the man’s chin but Nicolò had no shame left when it came to bringing Yusuf to ecstasy.

“Oh, _thank Malta_ ,” He exclaimed and Nicolò had to pull back because he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He took a moment to kiss and lick the cock before sliding his lips down over it again. “Your mouth is a godsend, my Nicolò.” So hot. So wet.

Just like Nicolò’s orgasm had come swiftly, so did Yusuf’s. He made slight thrusts, fucking into his mouth as Nicolò swallowed his come, making sure he wouldn’t dirty his clothes like his lover had.

The man kneeling before him let the heavy cock fall from his mouth and pushed the hem of his tunic up with his nose to kiss Yusuf’s stomach. His stubble scratched against the sensitive skin in a way that made Yusuf shudder. He was about to thank Nicolò in all the languages and dialects he had learned, when a searing pain in his shoulder killed the words in the back of his throat and a cry ripped out of him instead.

He barely had time to register the tip of an arrow sticking out of his skin just under the clavicle, when a new pain hit him in his back; another arrow that didn’t pierce all the way through.

“Yusuf!”

Two shadows appeared behind Nicolò and pulled him back and pushed him into the sand before he had the chance to get up.

Yusuf fell backward, which snapped the bolts of the arrows and aggravated the wounds. He was groaning in pain but still struggled to regain his footing. His mind raced, trying to remember where his scimitar was and his heart sank when he realized the scabbard still hung off Salma’s saddle and she stood far away from him. She bristled at the intruders but otherwise remained her calm self.

Boots kicked against his chest and then between his legs, where he was still exposed and sensitized. It introduced him to a new and visceral kind of pain, after a hundred years of living a painful life.

“Stop hurting him! Stop!” Nicolò was screaming as he was pinned down with his face in the sand. “Yusuf!”

Yusuf heard a snap. A bone break. But not one of his. His Nicolò was fighting so hard he was breaking his own bones with the force of it. It didn’t matter that they would heal quickly, it sickened Yusuf no less.

He knew he had to fight harder too, but he couldn’t even catch his breath to yell at their attackers, to plead for them to leave his Nicolò alone as he was kicked over and over. In his crotch, in his stomach, in his back. Meanwhile his body was trying to heal around the arrows but the flesh couldn’t expel them, so the wounds just burned.

The men were speaking Arabic, in a local dialect. They were calling both immortals the most vile things. It was apparent they had seen the two of them be intimate. They had seen Nicolò pleasure him and they were taunting him most of all. 

Yusuf coughed up blood and then spat at the boots of the man who stood before him. He was kicked in the face as a response and shortly after a sharp blade sank into his stomach.

Nicolò was the one to scream at that. So raw, a pain that pierced Yusuf worse than anything. The Italian thrashed, trying to get out from underneath the two big Arabs, but without success. They used their weight and a clever hold to keep him pinned down. A third walked up to put his foot on the side of his neck.

The man with the sword cut it through Yusuf’s belly, splitting him open and gutting him. Then hacked at him a few times for good measure, laughing all the while.

“Nonononono…” Yusuf muttered to himself as his body went weak. The wound was too large and deep to heal quickly. _You can’t die, Yusuf Al-Kaysani_ , he thought to himself. It would take him too long to wake up. He had to protect Nicolò _now_. Right now!

“What shall we do with this one?” One man asked.

“We’ll take him to the river to rinse out his mouth and wash the filth off him first.”

Blood flooded Yusuf’s mouth, drowning him, leaving him unable to say anything to Nicolò. Unable to make him any promises. The promise to revive and to come get him. He reached a hand out to him, even though he was too far from him. His fingers went limp in the sand.

Nicolò’s face was red and wet with tears. Another horrifying scream tore out of him.

That was the last thing Yusuf heard before he died.

When he woke up, the gash in his stomach was still knitting together, his intestines regenerating. He forced himself to sit up and scan the campsite. It looked undisturbed, aside from the red sand that surrounded him. The fire was still burning. The tent was still standing.

But Nicolò was gone.

So was Salma, leaving him without fast transport and without his scimitar.

He got up and stumbled around in a panic. “Nicolò… Nicolò…”

To the river. They were going to take him to the river. Yusuf had to get there!

He doubled over in pain as the last of the wound closed up, but the arrows were still stuck in his body. The one that pierced all the way through he could dig out of his flesh, cutting his fingers in the process. The one in his back he couldn’t reach. He could only graze it with his fingertips. Unable to yank it out, he left it and ignored the searching pain as his tissue was unable to heal around it.

It didn’t matter. He had to save his love. But how? He had no horse and he had no weapon.

Then he remembered, while his scimitar had been strapped to the saddle, Nicolò’s longsword had been tucked between their bedrolls in the saddle bag, which he had unpacked when he set up the tent.

Yusuf crawled into the tent, pulling at blankets and he found the longsword. A bloodlust was awakened in him. Something he hadn’t felt for decades. Nicolò had turned him into a forgiving man, but now he was reduced to a vengeful spirit. He grabbed the longsword, tied the leather straps of the scabbard to his belt, in place of his scimitar, and started running in the direction of the river.

If the raiders had their own horses along with Salma, they could have gotten to the river in just an hour, whereas Yusuf, even running as fast as he could, for as long as he could, wouldn’t get there until dawn.

They would have his Nicolò for hours.

The sky was a dusty lavender above him and a fiery orange at the horizon when Yusuf heard a scream echo through the desert. Not his Nicholò, but one of their attackers. There was hope!

If he had any strategic thought in his mind, he would have crawled up the dune and assessed the situation first. But his body was exhausted from running and his mind was equally weary. He couldn’t think anymore.

He crested the hill, the sunrise behind him.

The sight before him gutted him once more. 

There was no hope…

Nicolò was upright on his knees. He was bare-chested. He had his trousers on but they hung loosely off his hips. The laces were undone. The men crowding him had their pants undone as well.

One man was kneeling behind him, holding his arms behind his back. Nicolò’s shoulder was jutted out, he had probably dislocated it in his struggle and it couldn’t pop back in with how he was being held. Another man stood by him, his fingers twisted into his hair to hold his head still. A third man had his hand cupped under Nicolò’s jaw. He was knelt in front of him. With his other hand he was holding a dagger and he had the hilt of it shoved deep into Nicolò’s mouth.

Nicolò was gagging around the invasion. Tears running down from his eyes. Some vomit running out of the corner of his mouth.

The fourth attacker lay off to the side, wailing in pain, clutching his bloodied crotch, having suffered the worst bite a man can suffer. But the implication of what had happened made Yusuf feel zero empathy.

He didn’t pause as it all unfolded to him. He was charging down towards them, letting out a battle cry.

The men frowned and squinted at him, not recognizing him with the sun behind him.

The foul creature holding the dagger took it out of Nicolò’s mouth and Yusuf felt sick seeing how long the handle was, with an ornate, bulbous tip at the end. He turned the dagger in his hand, ignoring Yusuf’s yelling, and inserted it into Nicolò’s mouth again with a jab, this time with the sharp end. He angled the blade up through the roof of his mouth and Nicolò’s body went limp and slumped down as the two other men let go of him, preparing to fight Yusuf.

During their time on Malta, they had traded swords often as they trained, so the weight and power of the longsword were not unfamiliar to Yusuf. Combined with his rage, he was unstoppable. He sliced at the three of them, easily thwarting the swing of their blades. One of them tried to fight him with _his_ scimitar but he sent it flying when he cut off the hand that was holding it. He cut his throat from a distance with the tip of the longsword, then twisted around and gored the man who meant to attack him from behind. He slid the entire length of the sword into him and enjoyed the terror on the man’s face when he recognized him.

The third man had recognized him too and was frightened into fleeing as opposed to fighting. Yusuf chased after him before he reached the horses that were tied to a tree, Salma being one of them.

He cut him along the back of his thighs and the man fell forward. He stuck him through his head.

The last man posed no threat, he was still on the ground, writhing in pain. Yusuf sliced under his arm and the arterial bleed bled him dry in seconds.

Nicolò hadn’t gotten up.

_Nicolò hadn’t gotten up._

The longsword fell from his hand. _No, this couldn’t be it_ , he thought to himself. But why hadn’t Nicolò gotten up? His wound should have healed by now.

He rushed over to where his love lay in the sand, curled in on himself. Yusuf was relieved for only a second when he realized he was alive again.

Nicolò lay there convulsing, wracked with grief. Gritting his teeth. Then he threw up. Mostly blood that had flooded his mouth. His eyes were screwed shut. He was sobbing uncontrollably.

The two had been through so much together. More than people should go through in a lifetime – and they still had a long way to go. They had grieved together many times. Yet Yusuf had never seen his Nicolò so savagely destroyed.

He dropped to his knees. His hands hovered over his shaking body but he stopped himself from touching him. Given everything, Yusuf wasn’t sure if his touch was wanted and if he was unsure, he knew he shouldn’t do anything without permission. 

Nicolò had his arms wrapped around his naked torso. His chest heaved as he hyperventilated. He had died so many gruesome ways but had never made sounds as pained as he did now.

Yusuf wept with him. “Please, my love, may I touch you? May I comfort you?”

The man let out a wail and curled in on himself more.

“Seeing you hurting like this is the worst death I’ve died.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. His eyes burned with tears. “You are my life, my Nicolò. My love. My all. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for how I’ve failed you. I promise I will do everything in my power to make this right and make you feel safe. I love you, I will always love you, if you let me.”

Nicolò scrambled upright and threw himself at Yusuf, clutching his arms around him and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Yusuf let out a small sound in gratitude and hugged his true love to his chest. One arm around his waist, the other around his shoulders, with the hand petting into his hair.

Yusuf rocked him back and forth and let him cry until he exhausted himself. Then the man peeled himself out of his arms and crawled to the river, lacking the strength to walk, and he washed himself. Washed his face, his penis, between his thighs, and between his ass cheeks… Trembling the entire time. He refused to let Yusuf help, even begged him not to watch, with a voice so raw and small he was barely audible

It would take Nicolò decades to recover. It would take him decades to be himself again.

For weeks he could barely eat. Whenever something would hit the back of his throat he would gag and throw up. He became thinner and thinner and came close to starving. The process of gaining his weight back was slow and arduous.

For months he hardly spoke, hardly slept, hardly looked at Yusuf.

For years he wouldn’t feel at home in his own body. 

There was no kindness in him. But no rage either. There was nothing. His bright eyes were vacant, as if he had never come back alive.

Yusuf wanted them to return to Malta, but Nicolò refused. So they stayed in the region to protect travelers from men like _that;_ beasts that prowled the desert.

It took him a whole year until he could cry again. It startled them both, sitting privately around a campfire. He didn’t want Yusuf to comfort him, not even as he writhed in pain as if it was happening all over again.

“It’s punishment for our love,” He wailed. “We’re being punished, Yusuf!”

Nicolò was only punishing himself. But Yusuf couldn’t think of words to say to him to convince him of that. He felt as hopeless and as useless as he had that night, watching his love as he wept, as he lost himself to the crushing belief that his worst fears had come true. The fears he had shared with Yusuf on Malta. That both God and men would conspire to hurt them for their love. His tone had been a victor-less “I told you so”.

Nicolò covered his face with his hands, wanting to hide his grief. The other arm he wrapped around his legs as he had his knees drawn up to his chest and he rocked himself back and forth, desperately trying to calm himself. “I love you, Yusuf, but I don’t want to anymore. I’m terrified of loving you!”

It was a punch in Yusuf’s gut.

It was the first time Nicolò had used the words to tell him he loved him and it was to say that he didn’t want to.

He was immobilized by it. He was sure, then, that he would die on the spot, to never resurrect. His heart, his lungs, his liver, his spleen, everything was clawed out of him.

They were dead together, roaming the desert like ghosts. But the thought never occurred to him to leave. If all he’d have left of his Nicolò was this shadow of him, then he would take it. He could not part from it. He would only leave if he was asked. He told Nicolò he _would_ leave, if he was asked. But he was never asked. And that was the only thing that tethered Yusuf to the earth and he was grateful for that fine, silken strand. If this was all their love was anymore, he would hold onto it.

The caravan they had been traveling with for a fortnight was attacked by bandits in the night. In spite of their exhaustion, they managed to fight them off, but Yusuf got slashed across the face and the nomads had seen the wound heal before their eyes.

Suddenly, the people they had been protecting for weeks turned on them. When one of them managed to restrain Nicolò, Yusuf killed him. It was the first time in decades Yusuf had killed a man whose name he knew, whose wife he knew, whose children he knew, whose favorite song he knew. But he killed him without hesitation when he saw the panic in his love’s eyes.

His scimitar still dripped blood as they fled, narrowly escaping the angry nomads who chased them into the nothingness of the desert. Thankfully they only had stubborn mules, no horses or camels to catch up with them.

The cold of the night was biting and they had nothing to make a fire. They had to sleep against each other for warmth, after not having slept in each other’s embrace for so long that Yusuf had started to forget the shape of Nicolò’s body in his arms. They shivered violently as they came together, sharing their cloaks. But wrapped up in his love’s scent, a warmth radiated from the hollow of Yusuf’s chest.

He slept and so did Nicolò.

He had a nightmare and so did Nicolò.

A searing pain woke him up. He gargled as blood filled his mouth. He tried to swallow but he couldn’t, there was a dagger stuck in the side of his neck, ruining his throat. The blade was ripped out and then there were hands around his neck, applying pressure. Yusuf thought his attacker was choking him, impatient for him to bleed out. But instead the hands kept the wound closed, in a useless attempt to stop the bleeding.

He blinked and looked up at the face hovering about him. Something hit his cheek; a droplet. He blinked again.

It was Nicolò. He was crying. “I’m sorry… Yusuf, I’m sorry,” He choked out. “Please, I didn’t mean to! I thought-… Yusuf! _Oh God!_ ” It was the first time in years that Nicolò had called on his God.

With a single look Yusuf tried to put him at ease, to reassure him that he would revive for him. It was all he could do before his vision went black.

Slowly, sensation returned to him. He felt coarse sand under his fingertips. He felt the wind move his curls. He felt the drip, drip, drip, of tears on his face. He felt a weight seated on top of him, grounding him.

He sucked in a breath and someone else let out a sob.

“Yu-suf…”

His eyes fluttered open at the call of his name. He saw the stars above him and the brightest of all were Nicolò’s eyes. Tears poured out of them like falling stars, that turned to summer rain on Yusuf’s face. Fingers trembled against Yusuf’s throat, still holding a wound that was no longer there.

“Shhh…” He tried. His limbs were still weak and heavy but he forced himself to lift his arms and gently touch Nicolò’s wrists.

“Look at what I’ve done to you,” His beautiful love lamented.

“I’m fine. I’m healed.”

Nicolò shook his head. “No. You’re not.”

Yusuf knew what he meant. And he was right. But he would never blame him for that. “You did nothing to me. _They hurt you_. So they hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, Yusuf. For what I said… I love you and I love our love. I don’t want to be without it. I don’t want to be without you.”

Yusuf smiled then and it felt new on his face. It had been so long.

“I love you so much, yet I killed you,” He said and he wasn’t talking about the stab to his neck. He meant the year he had spent pulling away from him, refusing to meet his gaze. The kind of death Yusuf sunk further into every passing day. But now his words were pulling him to the surface and breathing life back into him.

With renewed strength, Yusuf reached up to touch Nicolò’s cheek and to his heart’s content the man closed his eyes and leaned into it. A hand came up to cover his own, holding it in place to reassure him just how much the touch was wanted. Was needed. The palm was tacky with Yusuf’s blood.

“I will always come back to you,” He vowed.

Nicolò nodded then. “And I to you.”

And his Nicolò did come back. Not yet. But he did.

His love wanted to leave the dagger behind, but Yusuf wouldn’t let him. He insisted. Just as he had insisted for Nicolò to start sleeping with it in the first place. Yusuf had gotten the dagger for him. He did everything he could to make him feel a little safer.

He asked him again to come to Malta with him but he was refused. They remained in the desert, protecting the people. _Yusuf’s people_. He understood why. But Yusuf protected nobody as fiercely as he did his Nicolò.

This man, once a Christian, once a crusader, once a clumsy warrior at the siege of Jerusalem, _he_ was Yusuf’s people now.

Months later, in an inn in Cairo, Nicolò asked Yusuf to make love to him again. They both cried as their bodies became one once more. Slowly, Yusuf was allowed to replace the painful memories with pleasurable ones. Again and again. However, Nicolò wouldn’t take Yusuf into his mouth and wouldn’t let Yusuf suck on him either.

During the third crusade, from 1189 to 1192, they fought against the new wave of invading knights. Afterward, they finally headed back to Malta, a journey that took them two years. They had to be there to meet up with Andréa and Quynh.

It was there, on the island, in the home they had built - which had stood the test of time not as well as they had - that Nicolò could _worship_ Yusuf again. With time and distance separating him from what had been done to him.

* * *

**2020**

“Oh my God.” Nile was crying silently, staring at Joe who cried too.

Joe released a deep breath and he rubbed his stomach. He still felt nauseous whenever he thought back on it, so he could only imagine how Nicolò felt when the memories hit him. _That fucking Keane…_

Suddenly hands grabbed at his jacket and tugged at him. Nile pulled him towards her and awkwardly hugged him over the center console. Not until a long time later did she give him a squeeze before slumping back in her seat and rubbing at her eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know it would affect you this much.”

“No, it’s ok. I’m glad you told me. And – fuck – of course it affects me this way. You guys are family. You two are like my way, way, _way_ older brothers.”

A chuckle escaped him. He took a moment to just breathe and calm down. “It was a long time ago,” He said. He felt he needed to remind her of that, as she was still shaken to the core. “And nothing like that has happened since. I’ve made sure of that. We’ve _all_ made sure of that. And when someone tried something with Andy in the early nineteen hundreds, Nicky was fiercer than any of us to stop it. It has happened to her too, long before we met her. Even before she had Quynh. Before there was anyone to protect her.” He touched her shoulder and met her gaze to make her the wordless promise that they would do everything in their power to stop it from ever happening to her. “It’s just stayed with him, kind of like one of Andy’s relics, in her cave. Sometimes something happens that makes you find stuff you forgot you even had.”

Nile nodded. “My-… My mom… She’s a survivor too.” She bowed her head. “It happened before I was even born, but when she told me about it, the look in her eyes… it was like it was happening to her right there, across from me at the kitchen table.”

Yusuf felt Nile’s pain. At the memory and because thinking of her mother made her miss her all the more again.

“Oh man.” She rubbed her eyes dry for the last time. “Please tell me the story gets better again.”

“It does. You know it does.” He smiled at her. “Come on. Let’s go home. Check on the nurse and his patient.”

He didn’t say anything during the hour-long drive, giving Nile time to process everything.

Maybe the story was too harsh to have told her so soon. He wasn’t trying to sell her on the prospect of immortality like a salesman trying to sell a car, but he didn’t want to scare her off. Still, it had felt important to him to share this with her. Booker kept secrets and they kept secrets from Booker, thinking he couldn’t handle any extra burden. They needed to do things differently with Nile. This immortal life was a hard one, but none of them had to go through it alone. They had each other. She needed to know that, right away, or she’d put up barriers that they might never get to break down.

In a way it had already worked. She had told him about her mother also having been a victim of sexual assault. It was the most personal thing she had ever told him. Usually their conversations just consisted of them wise-cracking back and forth.

They pulled up into the driveway of the house they were renting. Still not trusting to go back to any of their established safe houses until Copley would really prove himself to be trustworthy. That was something that could take years.

Joe’s heart warmed spotting Nicky through the kitchen window. No matter where they were in the world or in time, it always felt like coming home when Nicky was there waiting for him. “Wonder what’s for dinner,” He said to Nile with a grin and then they went into the house.

“Hello, my love.” He walked in carrying the bags full of stuff they had bought. He kissed him on his cheek, letting his lips linger, already looking forward to crawling into bed with him later that night and hold him to his body and pet his hair. Then he scrunched up his face at the food his love was stirring.

Nicky shot a glance at the bags. Nile came in with two more. “Those were some big pockets you picked.”

“We went on a bit of a shopping spree. Nile got you a great leather jacket.”

Nicky frowned. “I don’t wear leather jackets.”

“You wear mine sometimes.”

“Yes and I only wear it because it’s yours.”

Joe beamed a smile at him. Such cute comments earned him another kiss, on the back of his neck, and a fleeting touch to his hips.

“What’s for dinner?” Nile asked, setting the bags down on the floor.

“American-style ‘mac-and-cheese’. From a box.”

Nile was disbelieving until Nicky patted the spatula against said box. “No way. That shit is my favorite.”

Nicky smiled. “I know. You said.”

Joe leaned back against the counter, folding his arms in front of his chest. No, more like hugged himself. Even when Nicky’s small acts of kindness were not directed at him, it still made him giddy. Even if he had to eat disgusting macaroni and cheese _from a box_. An affront to no one more so than to Nicky himself, but it was one of the many sacrifices he made for his family.

Nile had indeed said it was her favorite. Last week, as an off-hand comment while she was flipping through channels and paused briefly on a cooking show where they were making gourmet macaroni and cheese.

Nile looked like she was about to cry.

Nicky didn’t see, dutifully staring into the pot.

Her voice broke as she asked: “Nicky, can I hug you?”

His hand stilled over the pot and he looked at her with the concern of a father. He took a step away from the stove. “I would love for you to hug me.”

Nile rushed forward and flung her arms around his shoulders. Nicky effortless hugged her back, looping his arms around her waist and pressing his cheek to the top of her head. He swayed her left to right minutely. His eyes were closed at first, but after a while he opened them and his gaze found Joe. His expression was knowing.

Joe offered him a smile and, as expected, Nicky didn’t mind that he had told her the story. Joe took it upon himself to stir the macaroni to prevent it from burning, turning down the stove as he deemed it ready. Nicky allowed himself to be held as long as Nile needed it. Joe knew then that he would have to share his Nicky with both women from now on, now that Nile had also discovered the all-healing comfort of Nicky’s embrace.

When the two parted, Nicky joked: “All of that for some mac-and-cheese.”

Nile giggled like the child she was.

“Where’s Andy?” Asked Joe.

“I sent her to bed three hours ago. Can you go get her? She should eat.”

“Love, I’m not sure if Andy can stomach this stuff. She’s sick. Also, she’s mortal now.”

“I made her soup,” Nicky said and demonstratively lifted the lid of a another pot, on the back burner, that Joe hadn’t even realized was in use. Much more delicious smells hit his nostrils.

“Is there, by any chance, enough soup for two?”

“Yes.”

Joe hummed in appreciation. “You are a good, good man.” Leave it to his Nicky to cook two meals to take care of everyone.

Nile set the table and Joe went upstairs to drag Andy out of bed.

The young American wolfed down two plates of her mac-and-cheese. Nicky bravely ate a plate full of it himself. And Andy and Joe enjoyed their soup.

The most important thing was that they had dinner together. Like a family.

After dinner, Joe continued to tell Nile about his shared history with Nicky. Picking up in the year 1200, when Andy and Quynh returned to Malta. This time, he intended to make her blush.

* * *

**1200**

It was a warm day in spring and Yusuf was making love to his Nicolò. He had the man laid out on his back on the table outside of their small, stone home. His ass was right on the edge. His legs were hooked over Yusuf’s shoulders.

Yusuf had a hand, slick with oil, wrapped around Nicolò’s cock and with the force of his every thrust his arousal fucked into his fist.

Nicolò had his fingers twisted into his own hair, pulling on the strands. He was arching his back off the table as Yusuf drove him closer and closer to his orgasm. He begged Yusuf to come first, wanting to feel it. “Come inside me. Please, Yusuf, come inside me.”

With a grunt he did, slamming his hips forward one last time, burying himself into Nicolò’s supple body to the hilt. With only a few tugs, his lover was spilling his seed in his hand. “Ohh, you’re so beautiful like this.” He pressed a kiss to each calf before lowering Nicolò’s legs off his shoulders, directing them around his waist instead.

He had discovered that, unlike before reviving that first time in Jerusalem, he didn’t need rest after his orgasm, no matter how powerful. He leisurely rocked his hips back and forth, keeping himself hard inside his lover. They were both hypersensitive in the aftermath.

Thumbing against the underside of Nicolò’s cock was enough to have him gasping and whimpering. But if he kept touching him, he would maintain his erection as well and once they had caught their breath they could have a short reprise. It was always short the second time, but he loved fucking him when he was wet with Yusuf’s come.

He folded himself over and Nicolò curled up to meet his mouth. They kissed sloppily.

“Boys…” Someone admonished.

They snapped their heads sideways and spotted two women standing a few yards away.

Andréa and Quynh.

Yusuf and Nicolò didn’t even have the sense to be embarrassed. They grinned at their return and otherwise didn’t move a muscle.

“I see you two made nice,” Said Quynh.

Andréa glowered although it was all for show. “Seriously? This is what you two have been doing for the past century?”

Yusuf and Nicolò shared a look. In that look they shared a thousand memories from the past hundred years. In spite of the pain that was there, they laughed, because Andréa truly had _no_ idea.

“What? Actually did something useful with your time?”

Yusuf pecked Nicolò’s lips and then turned his head to face the women and tell them: “If you give us a minute… we’ll tell you all about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you decided to skip the description of the rape, here's all you need to know: Nicolò was kidnapped, raped, and killed by having a dagger inserted in his mouth. Yusuf killed the attackers. Nicolò was traumatized for over a year and thought it was God punishing them for their love, so he says he doesn't want to love Yusuf anymore, for fear of more punishment. When he has a nightmare, he kills Yusuf by accident. The thought of losing Yusuf then shocks him so much that he realizes their love is true after all and slowly he heals over the decades and when they return to Malta shortly before 1200 he is fully himself again.
> 
> No question of the day, given the nature of the chapter.
> 
> I promise the last chapter will have a happy ending and fluff and romance in spades to make up for this!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Thanks for reading this story and I hope the conclusion will not disappoint :)

**2020**

Every night Joe would tell Nile bits of the story to catch her up on the full history. She never got bored with it, looking forward to it every time. They only made exceptions on some nights, when she’d rather play videogames or go to a bar, dragging the three of them along with her.

He told her how Yusuf and Nicolò became Joseph and Nicolas, then Jorge and Nico, and then Joe and Nick – but everyone called him Nicky, because he just _felt_ like a Nicky to all of them. Nile called him Nick three times, to tease him, once as part of a filthy limerick, only to come to the conclusion that “yeah, that’s not his name”.

He told her about all the times they returned to Malta and all the places they went in between.

Really, he’d mentioned the island so much during the two months since they escaped Merrick’s lab, the story always circling back to it, that it was inevitable that Nile would one day suggest: “We should all go to Malta!”

Andy glared at Joe as if he had orchestrated it.

It was his intention to go back to Malta, but not necessarily with the two ladies in tow. However, if they rented a villa large enough and had bedrooms on opposite ends of the house, he actually enjoyed the idea.

But he was sympathetic to Andy’s reluctance. She’d never been to Malta without Quynh. The island was laced with memories for her and even though these were happy memories, they would be difficult to be confronted with, knowing she’d never have more of her than just those memories.

When the time came to switch safe houses, as they periodically did for their security, Andy surprised them all by announcing the next place they were going was Malta. Nile leapt from the arm chair to start packing her bags.

“Andy, are you sure?” Nicky asked from where he sat, comfortably pressed into Joe’s side. He’d been reading a book while Joe was telling Nile about some trouble Booker had gotten them in in Paris, 1867, involving a comical number of prostitutes. Andy had interrupted the story before he had even gotten to the best part.

The woman sagged down in the chair Nile had occupied. There was a calm sadness to her posture and expression. “You two should go there. It’s what you do. But we should also stay together. We need to be extra safe for a while.”

Joe had a feeling that wasn’t the reason. He suspected she just wanted to stay close to them, soak up as much of them as possible, while she still had time. Joe and Nicky felt the same way.

“So… that leaves just one option. We go together.” She leaned forward and looked down at her hands as she fidgeted. “Who knows? It might be good for me. It’s time I really try to find closure.”

“We’ll be there for you, boss,” Joe promised. “If you can’t find peace there, we will go. Wherever you need to go.”

She looked up. Her eyes glistened but as always she refused to cry. “I love you guys.”

“We love you too, Andromache.”

Joe absentmindedly tickled his fingers against Nicky’s back. He stared into Andy’s eyes, watching them brighten. Upstairs he heard Nile exclaim: “Beach, here I come!”

He loved his odd little family so much.

It was a long drive from Northern Scotland to Southern Italy. They didn’t want to risk airports just yet. Besides, they had a lot of stuff, including two swords and an axe that they couldn’t exactly get through customs. In Strassbourg, on the border between France and Germany, they bought a second-hand car and dumped the car they had been using in Scotland. In Naples they boarded a ship to Palermo and then they took the ferry from Pozallo to Valetta on the Southern end of Malta.

Around Mellieha Bay the island had become too overly populated. And the cabins they had built had been gone for centuries anyway. They went to Mistra Bay instead; a lot quieter and less tourist-y. They rented a big villa, per Joe’s request, and a convertible, per Nile’s request.

The young woman was thriving in the sun.

The first day there, they went shopping, even before they unpacked, and she bought nothing but short shorts and tank tops.

Nicky was still – and always would be – just a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy, but _Lord_ did he look good with Aviator sunglasses perched on that Roman nose. From behind those sunglasses, he kept a close eye on Andy, looking for any sign of discomfort. Bless him. But Nile’s enthusiasm was infectious and even Andy was not immune. By the end of the day the older woman was walking around in short shorts too, hiding a smile as Nile made it a point to catcall at her.

Nicky drove them home after dinner. One sinewy arm outstretched to rest a hand on the steering wheel, while the other rested on the gear shift. Joe stared at him from behind his Ray-Bans.

Nile and Andy took the two smaller bedrooms on one end of the house, leaving Nicky and Joe the master bedroom with balcony that overlooked the bay.

When Joe emerged from the shower he found Nicky draped over the bed: naked, face down, half-asleep. He crawled over to him, the towel still around his waist, and straddled the back of his thighs. He put his hands on his shoulders and massaged them.

Nine hundred years ago, Joe – Yusuf – could only describe Nicolò as pale. But the man actually always got a nice, golden tan after some time in the sun and Joe was looking forward to it. They had plans to go the beach the next day, to swim and lounge around.

He kneaded the muscles and worked his way down. Nicky melted under his touch. He avoided the tickly spot on his sides, not wanting him to tense up – no matter how funny it was. He pressed his thumbs into the dimples at the small of his back and dragged them up, applying the perfect amount of pressure, drawing the first moan from his lover. He massaged his buttocks as well, ignoring the erection that tented the towel. Ignoring the way Nicky pushed his hips into the mattress.

“Do you want to sleep, my love?”

“I haven’t showered since Naples,” He muttered in response.

Joe bent forward and touched his nose to the skin between his shoulder blades. He sniffed audibly. “Mmm, smells good to me.” The shoulders shook with laughter. “Shall I draw you a bath?”

“I love you, Joe.”

He smirked. That would be a ‘ _yes, thank you_ ’. He pressed a chaste kiss onto his back and then trotted back into the ensuite – much more spacious than the bathroom they had to themselves in Scotland, complete with free standing bathtub. He turned the faucet on almost as hot as it would go and poured a mixture of two bath foams into the water, blending lilac with vanilla. Ten minutes later the tub had filled and he walked out to get Nicky.

The man sighed as he lowered himself into the bath. He cracked an eye open. “You’re not going to join me?”

“And stew in your filth? No thanks,” He joked. They had enjoyed many lovely baths together but he knew that if he got in, Nicky would focus on taking care of him. Taking care of others was always Nicky’s focus. But that wasn’t Joe’s goal for the evening. “Let me take care of you,” He whispered. He knelt next to the bath and dipped a hand into the soapy water to run it down Nicky’s chest.

The man leaned his head back against the edge and closed his eyes. “What have I done to deserve you?”

“So many things,” Joe said as he washed his body, Pressing his mouth to his shoulder and thoughtlessly kissing the same spot over and over.

Nicky’s eyebrows twitched. “Do you think Andy is doing alright?”

Joe leaned over and moved his mouth to kiss him on the brow and the frown melted away under his lips. “Would you please just relax, tesoro mio?”

“I worry about her.”

“You worry about everyone.” Not an accusation but an admiration.

“I’ve been thinking…” His voice trailed off as he thought some more.

His dear Nicolò, always thinking. Always thinking about others and how to spare them or help them.

“Thinking about what it took to get us here, in Malta, that first time.” He raised his head off the edge of the tub to look at Joe with a simmering sorrow. His voice never raised above a whisper. “Andy spent three years of her life away from Quynh to bring us together. She wasted three years of their shared life, to give us our time. She made that choice because a few years was nothing, life felt infinite. But they didn’t have as much time as they should have had. Now that she is mortal, just think of how valuable three years are.”

“My love, Andy has no regrets about bringing us together. About the sacrifice she and Quynh made. It was not wasted time, Andy feels that, I know she does. It was her gift to us.”

“And what of our wasted time?”

Joe frowned, asking questions with his eyes.

“Life is not ours to have forever. We cup our hands but it pours through our fingers like water-…” He shook his head at himself. “Love, I try, but I am no good with words...”

“No, not good at all. You are exquisite with words.”

Nicky sighed pleasantly at the encouragement. “What I am trying to say is that each moment is valuable. No matter how much time we have together, it will never be enough. And it will be less because of me. I ran away from you in 1099. I pushed you away in 1175. And, even now, while we are together, I’m keeping you at arm’s length.” He grinned wryly at their closeness. “So to speak.”

“Nicky-“

“No, Joe, please.” Water trickled from his arm as he raised a hand out of the tub and placed a finger against Joe's lips. He dragged it down his chin and his throat with the lightest touch, then grabbed onto the white porcelain as if he’d drown in the tub otherwise. His knuckles turning white. “I know it doesn’t seem like much time now; just a few years. But one day, one of us will lay wounded after battle and unable to heal, or in bed as an old man… and… just think about how much we will regret those wasted years. How much we will wish we could get that time back. Time I have stolen from us.” He closed his eyes and twin tears flowed down his cheek.

“Nicky, please, don’t grieve something that we did not lose.” He stroked his thumbs over his cheeks to wipe away the tears. “The time you need to heal is never wasted time. Just because your body needs only minutes, doesn’t mean you should be impatient with your mind.” He craned his neck and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Your beautiful mind. All of the complexity and kindness and wisdom that your harbor there… All that makes you _you_. It is not wasted time. It is as important to me as every second I have kissed your lips, made you laugh, or heard you sing – when you didn’t realize I was listening.”

The chuckle that escaped Nicky was like life breathed into Joe’s lungs.

“It is not a waste. Whatever you need, I need too.” He stressed and then quipped: “And about those years apart _before_ Malta… Let’s be honest, we needed time apart. You were a thorn in my side. You were so annoying.”

“You were an asshole,” Nicky bantered back.

“Yes, yes I was.” It was a joke, but at the same it wasn’t. Being apart had done them good. It had given them the chance to start fresh. Joe needed it. Yusuf had needed it. He needed to miss Nicolò in order to realize he didn’t hate him. Otherwise, he would have kept taking out his anger on the other man and there was no way of telling how much of that Nicolò’s gentle soul could have endured. Yusuf’s rage would have chipped away at him and would have left him with a jagged edge on which they would have cut each other for eternity.

Now, Nicky was all round and soft shapes. All comfort. All tenderness. All care. All and more.

Joe rubbed his nose against Nicky’s to elicit another laugh. “Stop worrying. Let go and let yourself be happy.”

“Make me,” Nicky challenged sweetly.

Joe grinned and captured his mouth. He teased his tongue against his lips but every time Nicky’s tongue darted out to dance, he avoided him. He repeated the evasion over and over until Nicky was _mewling_ and only then did he give in, letting their tongues slide together, wet and hot. They panted through their noses. Joe ended the kiss worrying Nicky’s bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back. “How ‘bout that?”

Nicky had to blink several times to get the haze out of his eyes. “Yeah… that does the trick.” He mirrored Joe’s satisfied smirk.

Joe tended to him until the water went lukewarm, then he helped him get out and toweled him dry and jerked him off in front of the bathroom mirror, standing behind him and whispering in his ear how handsome he was. Holding him upright with one arm around his chest, pressing him to him. Joe was so in tune with the man that Nicky’s pleasure was Joe’s pleasure. The sight of him in the mirror – hard, pink cock in Joe’s hand, abdomen tight, chest and face flushed, eyes staring back at him – combined with Nicky arching his back into the pleasure, pressing his ass against Joe’s arousal, was enough to make him soil the towel he was wearing in unison with Nicky’s orgasm.

Afterwards they crawled into bed, leaving the double doors to the balcony open so the crashing waves could lull them asleep.

Andy quirked her eyebrow at them when they came downstairs the next morning after sleeping in late. “I came downstairs two hours ago expecting a home-cooked breakfast,” She teased, sipping her coffee.

“Sorry, Andy. I’ll make you something, what would you like?”

Andy laughed at Nicky already rummaging through cabinets. She pulled a bag up from the chair next to hers, where she’d been hiding it. “They have Dunkin’ Donuts here.”

Joe took the box out of the bag and studied the assorted donuts, picking out two, leaving ones he knew Nicky would like best.

“Well, since you’re set for breakfast anyway, I’m going to meditate first.” Nicky went back upstairs to perform his morning ritual which he always did first thing in the morning, right after waking up early and before cooking everyone breakfast. Nicky had been meditating since he’d learned to do so during their travels through Asia in the thirteenth century. For him it was a good substitute to prayer, which he had abandoned.

Joe had replaced his prayers with meditation as well. Letting Nicky be the one to teach him, guide him through the process of centering himself and clearing his mind.

The older he got, the less it felt right to hold onto his religion, as all religion was corrupted by men. But for him meditation was something he only did when he had need for it. It wasn’t a daily thing for him. What was a daily thing was watching Nicky meditate. Maybe that in and of itself was a meditation of sorts. It certainly always had a way of calming him, seeing his lover so serene, basking in the morning sun.

The first of the donuts Joe had picked was gone in three bites and he was going to follow Nicky upstairs, knowing he’d find him seated cross-legged on their private balcony, but Andy stopped him.

“You are an animal,” She said, glaring at how he barely managed chew with his mouth so full. “Sit down.”

He did as instructed. It took a while for him to swallow so he could speak. “You okay, boss?”

She smiled, that was a good sign. “Surprisingly, yes. It actually feels good being here. It’s different enough that it’s not… upsetting. But still the same enough that it makes me feel close to her.”

“I’m glad.”

“How about you? How about Nicky?”

“We’re doing good, boss.”

“Did you guys-…?” She winked at him.

Joe let out a laugh. “What? Did you think we’d breathe in the sea air and just ‘get to it’?”

“Maybe. Honestly? Yes.”

He shook his head at her, amused, he knew she wasn’t being seriously, it was just her way of bringing it up. “We’re getting there. He’s doing better.”

“I talked to Copley. He tracked down that doctor, Kozak. If you want us to go get her-”

“Andy,” He stopped her. “It wasn’t her. It was that guy, Keane.” He spat the name as the insult it was. “I took care of it.”

“I know. But Nicky wasn’t the only one to get hurt in that lab.” She leaned over the table towards him with a deep concern and love in her eyes. Like a mother, a sister, and a best friend, all in one. “You got hurt too, Joe.” 

“If I wanted her dead, I would have shot her in the face on our way out of the lab. But I’m not going to start that kind of life again. That asshole was in my face and he was a threat. I’m not going to go after some doctor. What she did to us…” He shrugged. “Was nothing we couldn’t handle. We spent most of our time strapped to those tables talking about that time in Malta.”

“What time in Malta?”

He gave her the same look Nicky had given him. She knew the stories.

“Ahhh. That time in Malta.”

He laughed with her.

“Filthy beast. You’re not going be repeating _that_ while we’re here, right? Nile’s too innocent to overhear that sort of stuff.”

“Andy, when he’s ready, I’m going to give him whatever he wants. If he wants to be tied to the bed and get fucked from sunset to sunrise, I’ll do it.”

At that moment, Nile shuffled into the kitchen with a groan. “It’s way too early for me to be walking in on these sorts of conversations…” Her mood instantly changed when she spotted the box on the able. “Ooohh, donuts!” She reached into the box for the coconut cake ring.

“Not that one,” Andy and Joe blurted in unison and then exchanged a look and a smile.

Nile jerked her hand back. “What? Why?”

“It’s Nicky’s favorite.”

“And you’ve been spoiled plenty,” Andy added.

Nile rolled her eyes and pointed at the Boston cream instead. “This one ok? Or is it his second-favorite?”

“It is, but you can have it,” Joe said sweetly, knowing Nicky would want her to have it if she craved it. Of course, Nicky would have let her have the coconut one without a fight as well.

Nile grabbed the vanilla sprinkle and closed the box.

Joe smiled at her and she smiled back before taking her first bite.

“Giving the baby sugar for breakfast might not be the best idea,” Andy said, which earned her a punch against her arm from Nile, hard enough to make her wince and then immediately after laugh.

The two bantered back and forth so Joe got up and sauntered back upstairs to the master bedroom. As predicted, he found Nicky sitting cross-legged on the balcony. Eyes closed. Hands resting on his knees. He looked at peace. The ocean wind tugged gently at shirt and at his hair.

Joe took care not to disrupt him, without being too quiet – too sneaky. That would trigger the hyper aware senses of the sniper. He made just enough noise to make his presence be known and non-threatening, yet not enough noise to interrupt his meditation. He seated himself in the lounge chair in the corner of the balcony and propped his feet up on the coffee table in front of it.

The ocean view was beautiful but Joe couldn’t spare it a second glance as Nicky was irresistible to his gaze.

He waited. Not getting bored for a second. His thoughts danced with memories, not sticking with any one of them long enough to figure out the time and place, but reveling in how they made him feel and leading them into the present that way.

He knew Nicky was done when the cutest little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he knew he was being stared at and admired. A blush followed shortly after. Joe said dreamily: “Love, my heart has endured the most scorching desert heats, but it’s you who melts it.”

The lips twitched. He was fighting so hard not to smile and put on a little frown instead. “Hn. Not your best.”

Joe laughed at the biting critique of his romance. 

Nicky cracked his eyes open and cocked his head to look at him. He still tried to scowl, but his eyes betrayed him.

“You love it,” Joe asserted. “You always love it. Just admit it.”

“I do,” He said, changing the atmosphere with only those two words. Nicky may not always find the pretty words to express himself, but the way his voice communicated in tones was direct and clear, like how he was with a bow or a rifle.

There was a purpose to why Joe was always expressive about their love. It was a purpose greater than making Nicky blush or smile – however lofty that was, in and of itself.

Yusuf had sworn to Nicolò: “We will walk among people from all over the world, one generation after the next. We shall prove to them all that two men can love one another.”

Joe was still on this mission, over nine hundred years later.

Over nine hundred years, ghosts from the pasts and infants in the present had tried to make Nicky feel like he wasn’t truly loved, because he was loved by another man. Joe ensured their failure. Words were his sword and his shield as he protected him from the terrible lie that their love was a lesser love.

“You always comfort me so well,” Nicky admired, but a sadness seeped into his tone. “I feel I’m falling short in offering you the same. You have been hurt too.”

“Amore mio, come here.” It was an order yet not an unkind one.

With feline finesse Nicky crossed the distance between them without getting up from the floor. Joe drew his feet off the coffee table and planted them on the stone tiles, so Nicky could position himself between his legs. He leaned his back against the seat of the chair and looped one arm around Joe’s calf. He tickled his fingers through wiry hairs as Joe’s shorts left his legs bare.

Joe bowed forward, placing a kiss where there was once – not too long ago, not long ago enough – a grizzly exit wound. One hand he folded into the crook of his love’s neck and the other he slipped into the loose hem of his shirt, just deep enough to rest his palm over his heart. It was only then that he recognized it to be another one of his shirts. It made him smile.

Even at their age, they were still evolving as people and learning new things about each other and Joe had discovered a new and adorable coping mechanism that Nicky was probably not even aware of that he was doing: wearing Joe’s clothes. The shirts, the leather jackets. Things Joe had already worn. Things that smelled like him.

He felt his heartbeat and said: “This is my ultimate comfort. Just this.” He coaxed Nicky to turn his head just enough for him to kiss him. He curled and uncurled his fingers against his chest and absorbed the shudder that passed through his body. “You do not fall short. You spoil me, Nicky. You spoil me with your love. To receive a glance from you is enough to make me whole, yet you give me so much more. I feel loved by you every day. I know what your love letters are. You trying so, so hard to crawl out of bed without waking me,” He smiled along with Nicky. “The cute way you say ‘good morning’ when you fail. The meals you cook me. Asking me to dance when there is no music and humming softly in my ear instead. You keeping my scimitar sharp and polished for a millennium. Always knowing how many bullets I still have left in the cartridge during a shootout. The way you look out for me from your sniper perch. The fact that you have a sketchbook and pencil in your getaway bag, in case I lose mine. How you’ll joke with me when we are in completely fucked-up situations.”

Joe took a deep breath. He idly played with Nicky’s earlobe, contemplating whether or not he should say it. But he knew he should. Nicky had to know that he could talk about it, if he needed to. Because breathing in the sea air of Malta was not going to fix all. “That even after all you’ve been through, you kiss me in the back of an armored truck full of armed guards. That you grab onto a man who’s beating the shit out of me, to make him stop…” Under his palm he felt Nicky’s heart race.

“Joe…” Nicky twisted his body around to kneel in front of Joe, with his hands on his thighs, where Joe covered them with his. “Before you speak his name, please, let me beg of you: do not. As I do not want to say it myself either. It does not belong here, on our Malta.”

He whispered: “You are right not to say it. It does not belong in your mouth. Like his gun did not belong in your mouth.” He stroked a thumb across his lips. He would never say that name again. His name would be forgotten. It would be the man’s second death at his hands. “We will not speak his name, but perhaps we should speak about what he did. If you want.”

“There is nothing to say. I was hurt by my memories, not by him. He didn’t do it with purpose.”

“Yes he did,” Joe insisted. “He didn’t know about the history there, but there was purpose to what he did. He went out of his way to beat us up instead of shooting us right away and he went out of his way to put that gun into your mouth. He wanted to feel powerful by treating us as lesser men, because of our love. But there is nothing more powerful than our love… I showed him that.”

“You showed me too, Joe.”

It was so instant, so effortless, so grateful. Joe kissed him then.

“You showed me so gently.” Nicky was muttering against his lips. “You showed me… Like you showed me the North star. I looked at it every night we spent in the desert after-… after-…” His face contorted, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“I know, my love.”

“Even when I was so lost, I could still find it.”

“And you found your way back to me.”

They kissed desperately, not minding the tears streaming down their face, kissing until the trails dried in the morning sun. “… I will always come back to you,” Nicky promised him, like he had done in the desert _, after_. And his Nicky would come back. Not yet. But he would. “I love you, Joe.”

“Nicky… Nicolò, _my knight_ , I love you so much.”

Lips and tongues moved in a dance perfected over the course of a millennium.

* * *

Nile, Nicky, and Joe spent all day at the beach while Andy took the car North to Comino, promising Nile that her training would resume the next day. So it became Nile’s mission to do as little as possible all day. She didn’t even go along with the two men as they went snorkeling in the crystal clear water. She just wanted to lie on a beach towel and soak up the sun.

They returned to her after spending hours in the water and Joe shook himself like a wet dog, getting water all over her and making her squeal. He loved this, he loved having a baby sister he could tease like this. Andy, as the big sister, would never let him get away with it, she would hunt him down on the beach and tackle him and in a few centuries time Nile would probably do that as well, but for now she just cursed him so colorfully it made him bellow with laughter.

“How are you _so_ old and yet _such_ a child?!” She roared without malice.

Playing with her reminded him of Booker. Reminded him of how he and Nicky would prank the Frenchman. Of course, they had been rougher with a little brother than they were with a little sister. They had literally scared him to death a couple of times…

Once they had dried in the sun, Nicky and Joe invited themselves into a game of soccer a group of college-aged guys were playing on the beach. They played on opposite teams to make the game fair and showed off their skill, which instantly made them friends with the other men, even though they called them “old bro’s” as they looked like they were in their thirties. Joe could only laugh at that.

They had _no_ idea.

All of a sudden Nile was less lazy too. She cheered for Nicky’s team. Joe had a feeling she would always pick Nicky’s side over his. She got up from her towel to watch the game with interest.

No, that wasn’t true. She watched the half dozen, half naked guys her age with interest.

Joe, for his part, enjoyed the sight of his half naked lover, getting sweaty and tanned. The redness on his shoulders and nose would disappear as soon as he would step into the shadow. They’d have to be mindful of anybody seeing that.

He caught him staring back at him more than once.

After the game – Nicky’s team won, dammit – one of the guys flirted heavily with Nile and she enjoyed the attention but she went home with the two immortal men anyway.

Joe bumped his shoulder against her as they walked side by side, back up their villa to shower before they’d go grab a bite to eat. “You could have gone with the boy, you know? It’s ok to enjoy people’s company.”

“I know. It’s just… Haven’t really had a fling before. It’s gonna take some time to get used to the idea that that’s the only option I have now.”

He put his arm around her and kissed her temple. He caught sight of a guilty look in Nicky’s eyes.

As if she read their minds, she pulled out of the embrace and stated: “Don’t get me wrong. I can’t stand the thought of spending _literal eternity_ with one person either, ok? I’m gonna have my fun, don’t you worry.”

Joe grinned and watched the guilt melt out of Nicky’s eyes. He had heard those exact words before. Around that time in 1867…

The two men fell back and followed Nile up the long staircase to their villa on top of the hill. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Joe asked in Italian, nudging Nicky.

His lover didn’t miss a beat. “Nile and Booker in a polyamorous relationship?”

“Hmhm.”

Nicky paused. Then: “He’s a little old for her.”

Joe stopped and threw his head back in laughter.

Nile shot a look over her shoulder. “What are you two talking about?”

Joe ignored her and responded to Nicky: “That’s not going to matter a couple hundred years from now.”

“True. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

They continued up the steps and Nicky made Joe laugh again when he suggested:

“Wanna make a bet?”

“Honestly, you two are so annoying,” Nile grumbled when they refused to let her in on the joke.

They spent an hour freshening up and getting dressed up and then went to dinner.

They could both tell Nile was still a little morose, but they had no trouble making her laugh. Under the table, Nicky had his hand on Joe’s thigh the entire evening and Joe covered his hand with his.

Nile’s spirit was lifted when Andy returned in the evening and announced that there would be no physical training for a while. The day of rest on Comino had done her good and she realized she needed more of it and that they all needed more of it. She finally acknowledged how much they had all been through and that they all needed time to heal. Each in their own way and for their own reasons.

Before Joe could accuse her of going soft in her old age, she warned Nile: “Consider it a vacation. It’s the only one you are going to get for the next two centuries. I’ll make sure these two keep you to it. Or I’ll come back to haunt all your asses.”

The only requirement was that she had to speak Italian by the time they’d leave the island and Andy refused to tell her how long she had to achieve that. Because stress made the brain absorb knowledge more efficiently, or so had been Andy’s mantra.

Two weeks passed, with days filled with sleeping in, eating well, tanning on the beach, playing soccer, playing video games, and teaching Nile Italian. It was the most endearing and familiar thing, becoming acquainted with _Nile’s Italian_. Nicky’s flabbergasted expression at how she still managed to mispronounce the letter combination ‘gli’ - no matter how often he repeated the sound for her to mimic – was comical. Not to mention his grimace when she’d neglect to pronounce double consonants.

When Nicky had shot Joe an exasperated look, wanting sympathy and pity, Joe could only shrug and say: “Now you know how I felt.”

But _Nile’s Italian_ was almost as cute as _Nicoló’s Arabic_ had been. Nowadays though, Nicky spoke Arabic like a native speaker, but it had taken him about a hundred years to get there. Joe took it upon himself to point that out to his dear lover and his indignation and trepidation had Joe hollering.

After the three of them had another lovely dinner at what was quickly becoming their favorite restaurant, they returned to the villa. Joe and Nile plopped down onto the couch and booted up the gaming console they had brought with them and had been making good use of. Nile challenged Joe to a Mario Kart tournament and Joe was happy to oblige, wanting to take her mind off things. She had happily been reminiscing about a family vacation a few years ago, between the appetizers and the main course, but by dessert she had been a little glum. The taste of the memory had gone sour in her mouth. Joe ached to cheer her up.

Video games, he had discovered, were very effective at this. It brought out her competitiveness, providing a good distraction and since she had the _inconsiderate tendency_ to win more often than she’d lose, her spirits were quick to lift.

Nicky simply curled up next to him in the little space between his hunched forward body and the armrest and tuned them out to read a book.

“You’re cheating! You have to be cheating!” Joe accused her when she won yet another round, just as Andy walked into the living room, returning from another day of roaming the island in search of memories to treasure.

Joe and Nile greeted her distractedly before jumping into the next race.

“Hello, children,” She said and folded herself in the lounge chair close to Nicky.

He closed his book and talked with her quietly, asking her about her day, while the other two were heckling each other.

Andy pretended to be annoyed with them, but if she really was, she would have driven her axe into the gaming console before long. When she finished catching up with Nicky, she simply watched Joe and Nile play and scored the insults they were coming up with to call each other.

Even in that regard, Nile was winning.

Joe had his way with words, but he preferred to speak in beautiful prose.

Nile revealed herself have a disgusting, absolutely filthy mouth. She had Andy howling with laughter. This spurred on the young American all the more. She loved impressing Andy, whichever way she could.

Nicky leaned in and kissed Joe’s cheek and whispered in his ear: “I’m going to go to bed. Are you coming?”

“Uhhh… one… minute…” He bit on his lip in concentration when Nile, driving ahead of him, dropped an explosive in front of him and he swerved to avoid getting blown up.

Nicky got up, said his goodnight to the other two and went upstairs.

Joe intended on following him upstairs after the race, but Nile goaded him into more rounds and it felt like his honor was at stake.

“It’s a good thing Nicky is our designated getaway-car-driver, because boy, you _suck_.”

“It’s a video game,” He said in self-defense.

“Well, you can’t drive worth shit in real life either,” Nile said.

Damn, he walked right into that. She kinda had him there too. He was always so content letting Nicky drive, he didn’t get a lot of practice.

They started a new race.

When did Nicky go to bed? Five? Ten minutes ago? One more race was probably fine. Nile was having fun and, admittedly, so was he, and he enjoyed making Andy laugh at their antics too, like a bonus.

When he started to gain a lead on Nile… well, by then he was really invested.

“Joe, are you coming bed?” He heard Nicky’s smooth voice say, having apparently come back down to fetch him. This alerted Joe that it had probably been a bit longer than ten minutes, for he knew his Nicky not to be an impatient man.

Joe couldn’t tear his gaze off the screen though. He was finally winning! “One-… _One_ race, my love. I got her this time.” Joe was biting on his lip and making faces at the screen.

A silence stretched between the four of them.

“Joe,” Andy said, tone midway between urgent and amused. “Joe? _Joe_.”

He snapped his head at her. “What?”

Andy didn’t say anything, she just pointedly stared ahead in the direction Nicky’s voice had come from earlier, sporting a smirk.

Joe whipped his head around and his jaw dropped.

There stood his love.

His gaze smoldering. Body wet and steaming from a hot shower. Hair dark and brushed back. His tall frame cocked at the hip. Only a towel hanging sinfully low on his hips. Fingers twisted into it to keep it from drooping lower. The glow of the television licked at the shapes of his muscles.

The only reason Joe had been winning the race was because Nile had given up and had been staring too.

He was gorgeous.

He was _ready._

“Oh,” Joe said smartly. Yes, such a way with words.

He was up in an instant, in more ways than one. He tossed the controller onto the cushion and crossed the room to get to him. “Excuse me, ladies.” His hands found Nicky’s waist. His lips found his mouth.

Nicky only let himself be kissed briefly. Then he peeled himself away from Joe, grabbed his hand and he led him up to their room.

The door slammed shut behind them and Nicky pressed Joe up against it.

“ _Oh_ ,” He said again and Nicky kissed the stupid grin off his face.

Joe was still wearing his nice dinner jacket, dress shirt, and slacks, but not for long. Nicky helped him out of his clothes, tearing some seams in the process. Neither could care less. The Italian kept him pinned against the door through most of it. The only control Joe had was over the kiss, having Nicky’s face cupped in his hands and tilting his head as he pleased to plunder his mouth. No matter how many times he licked behind his teeth and sucked on his tongue, that sweet taste never faded.

Nicky’s hands were everywhere, restless. Touches almost too fleeting to be pleasurable, if it wasn’t for how raw every single one of Joe’s nerve endings felt. Electricity arced through him. He could see the sparks behind his eyelids.

He held Nicky’s head back just long enough for them to take a few deep breaths and for Joe to waste some air to say: “I’m sorry I was so preoccupied with Nile.”

“Don’t be. I love how well you care for her.”

The two of them stumbled towards the bed and Joe grabbed his lover’s hips and held him still, not letting him fall down to the mattress quite yet. He looked into his eyes, as intimately as any kiss they could possibly share and his hands unknotted the towel. It fell to Nicky’s feet. His cock bounced up. Joe just looked at him, his gaze moving over his body like a caress and Nicky shut his eyes and moaned as if he could feel it. Joe knew he could.

Before touching him again, Joe had to ask: “Are you sure you’re ready, my love?”

The bright eyes opened. “Yes,” He breathed. “Let me prove it to you.” With grace he lowered himself down onto his knees in front of Joe, running hands up his strong thighs to the hem of his underwear which he pulled down and then helped Joe step out of. He wrapped his hand around the base of the shaft, thumb poised over a throbbing vein at the underside. He opened his mouth and let the tip of the cock rest on his tongue, which he then curled under it.

Joe was mindful not to put his hands in his hair, not wanting any touch to be misread as demanding or forceful. He studied Nicky’s face closely. At the first hint of discomfort, he would make him stop.

There was no hesitation when Nicky closed his lips around him and Joe reached out for his shoulder for balance. The love Nicky had given him for over nine hundred years was so powerful that Joe felt weak in the knees. A gust of wind through the open window could topple him over in that moment. All happy memories from Malta and all over the world, throughout time, flooded his head and heart and he didn’t know up from down anymore.

There would have been sadness for the fact that Joe would never be able to find the right words to fully express how much Nicky meant to him. How grateful he was for all his shows of affection – small and large, from refilling his water bottle during a work-out, to needlessly giving a life for him. But there was no room left for sadness, he was filled with love. Overflowed with it.

Nicky slid his hand up to Joe’s stomach and took his entire length into his mouth. His nose pressed into the black curls around the base and he held still for as long as could before dragging his lips back to kiss the tip and then repeat what he did.

“You are magnificent,” He praised. He took hold of his head then, but not to push him onto his cock, instead to pull him back and up on his feet so he could kiss that mouth and pour a near-millennium worth of gratitude into it. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, but Joe would always keep trying. “How thoroughly did you shower?”

Nicky looked daze from the kiss. It took a while for the question to register and for a smile to appear. “Very.”

“Good. Get on the bed. On your stomach.”

The man did as instructed, crawling on hands and knees to the center of the bed where he settled. His tan skin contrasted with the white of the sheets.

Joe’s hands started at his ankles, holding them only strong enough to position them a little further apart. Then his hands slid up over his calves, the back of his thighs, his buttocks, the small of his back, and his shoulders. Goosebumps came and went.

Nicky folded his hands under his chin and moaned in earnest when Joe started to massage him like he had the first night. The ministrations of his hands were exactly the same, but the atmosphere and their mutual desire changed the meaning of everything.

Joe’s body vibrated with need. Not a need for release or even a need for his own pleasure. The need to unravel Nicky, pull at the thread that coiled through his body and his mind, where bad memories were knotted up. Pull at it until he was undone and everything was free to fall away and then strum the string with a building crescendo that drowned out echoes of hurting.

He took his hands off him a brief moment and stretched out his arm to fetch lube from the nightstand. It had been hidden away in a drawer and would have stayed hidden from Nicky for as long as necessary.

“When did you get that?”

Joe put it on the bed off to the side for later. He’d grabbed it in preparation because he knew that once matters would heat up between him, he wouldn’t be able to force himself to take his hands away from Nicky’s body to get it. “I’ve had it since our first grocery run in Scotland,” He admitted, knowing Nicky would never mistake that to mean he expected him to be ready as early as that. “I knew you’d come back to me eventually. You always do. I wanted to be ready, to show you how much I love you once you would let me.”

Nicky shifted his arms and pressed his nose into the mattress. His voice was muffled as he griped: “Ohhh, why do I always ask you questions in bed when I _don’t want you to speak_ but put your mouth on me instead?”

“Sorry, my love. I will put my lips to better use.” He maneuvered himself to lie between Nicky’s legs, his feet hanging over the edge. He pressed a kiss to each of the dimples in the small of his back. With his hands on his round ass, he coaxed him to angle his hips up and he spread the cheeks apart.

He licked up from his balls, over his taint, to his hole and dipped his tongue into it. Nicky let out his first genuine cry of the night and bucked under him, but Joe held him with a grip strong enough to leave bruises on anybody else.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Joe.”

“In a minute, my love.” From the moan that resounded it was obvious Nicky was biting down on the sheets in an attempt to keep himself quiet. Joe raised himself up on his elbows and playfully pinched one ass cheek. “None of that,” He said. “Let go, Nicky. Let me hear you.”

“But-“ The word was as muffled as his moan had been.

“No.” That was the end of it. When he kissed and sucked on the skin between his tightened sac and his opening, moans poured from Nicky’s mouth, unhindered by sheets or shame. He licked into his hole. He used to do this a lot out of necessity before lube was invented; a delicious way to get Nicky wet for him. Since then, he did it because he had never tired of the taste of him.

He did it for as long as he could postpone more. Then he brushed his tongue up the spine, pushing himself up on hands and knees. He nipped at the jut of a shoulder blade, startling another one of those sounds out of his lover that had inspired Joe many times over the course of history to attempt to compose a song. But his music always fell short. His admiration of his love was limited to his vocabulary in the twelve languages he had made himself fluent in and to the countless different ways of lovemaking he had mastered. Joe had never become particularly adept at playing any given instrument, other than Nicky’s body. With a pluck of his fingers he could have him emit the most beautiful sounds.

Joe sat back on his haunches and grabbed the lube. Nicky was so turned on with anticipation that the sound of the cap snapping open make him jolt and moan. He held the bottle upside down, high above his lover and with a squeeze he made the clear liquid trickle out. The first drops landed on his left cheek, so Joe moved his hand slightly to let the lube pour into the cleft of his ass and onto his puckered hole. Joe tilted the bottle right side up, but kept it suspended. He plunged one finger into the opening, pushing the lube into it. He added a second finger and then followed up with more lube. It felt cold against his fingers, he could only imagine the sensations Nicky was experiencing as the liquid hit him where his body burned white hot.

Nicky was rocking back, seeking friction on his fingers and with the mattress, clenching his most intimate muscles around him. “Please, Joe.” He was breathless now. “Make me whole.”

The plea punched the air out of Joe’s lungs. “Turn over,” He said, as soon as he could manage, slipping his fingers out of him.

Nicky was loose-limbed and slow with his movements. He twisted himself onto his back. His eyes gave definition to the paradox of burning water; the Mediterranean pools alight with passion. He rubbed his knees against Joe’s sides.

Joe drew on the sun-kissed chest with his tongue: asymmetrical swirls that would only make Picasso proud.

_Weird man that was._ Definitely the weirdest artist they had met in history and the only one who had requested Joe to pose for a painting, not Nicky – who’s beauty had most notably been captured by Michelangelo. Andy still had the painting stuffed away in that cave of hers. The painting Picasso made of Joe in 1902, he did not want to take home, not even if the artist had offered. His expression had been vacant and his complexion too pale. Nicky _could not stop laughing_ at it, which was the only good that had come out of an afternoon otherwise wasted. An afternoon they could have spent making love instead. Just like this.

All the time in the word but Joe cared not for wasting any of it.

“Where did you go?” Nicky asked, stroking fingers through his beard.

Joe shook his head, stopped himself from sharing the memory and smiled at him warmly as he teased: “Didn’t you just berate yourself for making the mistake of asking me questions in bed?”

“You’re right. Stop talking. Kiss me.”

“I was actually going to suck on your nipples.”

Nicky snarled at that and tugged his head down. “Kiss me first. Then do _that_.”

While he kissed him, he thumbed his nipples, sensitizing them before latching his mouth on them.

It left Nicky whimpering and biting at his bottom lip.

Joe knew he had to stop, knew the threshold of Nicky’s pleasure, at which point he would come untouched. They had inched close to that threshold. As old as they were and with a “spank bank” – thank you, Nile - so legendary, the mind could provide as much stimulation as the body and little else was needed.

He poured more lube into his palm and stroked himself to slick his length. The bottle was tossed aside, forgotten, freeing up his other hand. He ran it through the cleft, gathering some of the wetness there and then pumped a tight fist down Nicky’s arousal.

Nicky locked his ankles behind him and pulled him in with his legs, but Joe untangled them and he let himself fall onto the bed next to Nicky, landing on his back with a bounce.

The confusion was momentary, then Nicky understood and moved to straddle him.

Joe let out a drawn out moan. Remembering all the times they had done this before. Remembering the mezzanine of the house they built collapsing under them as one of many, many examples. There were so many happy memories between them and it magnified every day, like the universe expanding. And Nicky had his own gravity that constantly pulled Joe in.

He ran his hands up the thighs on either side of him and slid his fingers through the dip above each hipbone. Then he held his hips but did nothing to guide him. Nicky would set the pace. Nicky would be in charge of their pleasure. It was important to Joe.

His love reached behind him and held his cock upright. Without ever breaking eye contact, he lowered himself down. He was relaxed, stretched, and wet, so with his weight bearing down Joe entered him easily. He was being welcomed inside.

Perched on top of him, Nicky took a moment to catch his breath and revel in the sensations of merely holding Joe inside of him, unifying their bodies as their souls were.

“I love you, Nicky. You’re so good to me.”

Nicky sat back and clasped both his hand around Joe’s legs, behind him. When he lifted his hips back up, they groaned in unison. Nicky didn’t say anything with words, he let his body proclaim his love for Joe.

The rhythm was slow, the way it only ever was when Nicky was in control. Joe could never manage that, not for long anyway – maybe he was a ‘barbarian’ after all, his thrusts steadily growing brutal, but never in a selfish pursuit. Nicky would always be begging for it. “You make love like a warrior,” he’d praise.

Nicky used his strong thighs to move himself up and down and he gyrated his hips. The precision and effectiveness with which he moved his body was admirable, something learned over close to a millennium worth of lovemaking.

All that love was nearly stolen from them, on a night that drained the life out of Nicky. A death that took longer to heal than any other.

Joe’s heart bled in his own, small, private death. He swallowed. It was hard to. His fingers pressed into Nicky’s skin, to remind Joe that his love was there. That he had come back to him as he always had.

There was no secret he could keep from Nicky. The man saw his anguish fraying the edges of his happiness and he stilled.

Nicky reached for his arms and pulled him upright. He kissed his closed eyelids with an otherworldly gentleness. He shifted his legs out from under himself and brought them around to encircle his lover. His arms did the same. He sat in Joe’s lap, doing little more than grind his hips and kiss Joe’s mouth.

It was _all_ and it was _more_.

The Italian pulled back and Joe knew he was waiting for him to look at him, so he did. He opened his eyes, comforted instantly by the sight of his face. His shapely lips, his big, Roman nose, his glittering eyes. He saw Joe’s hurt and he eased it all away. He caressed Joe’s face and Joe moved to kiss the palm.

Embraced by Nicky’s arms, legs, and body, Joe was swaddled in a love that had warmed and sheltered him for over nine hundred years. A love that had changed him so much, he was nothing without it. A love that seeped into holes and cracks and filled voids where the cruelty of men had tried to hollow him out. What comforted him most was knowing Nicky felt the exact same way.

Their bodies healed because some force willed it so. But their spirits endured only because they cured one another of all hurt that left no wounds.

“Are you ok?” Nicky whispers.

A chuckle bubbled out of him, at Nicky asking him questions again in bed. He kept his answer short this time. “Always. When I’m with you.”

Assured he was alright, Nicky’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Prove it.”

Joe smiled and let them fall onto the bed, rolling them so he was on top now. The movement of his hips was small at first as he was restrained by powerful limbs, but after a while they relaxed around him and he assumed that passionate brutality that characterized his lovemaking. He pulled all the way out of his lover and then drove back in, pushing the head of his cock through the tight outer ring every thrust. Nicky’s cries harmonized with Joe’s grunts.

“Believe me now?”

“Yes! Yes! This is my Joe… Ah!”

He felt nails dragging along his back and he felt the scratches heal instantly. He deepened and quickened his thrusts, not taking his length out of him anymore. Not wanting to part from him. He kissed his mouth, his chin, his mole, his brow.

The longer it lasted, the more aroused he became, the more sensitive his prostrate was and it had Nicky keening as Joe provided it with a constant pressure and friction. “Joe, Joe, tell me I’m yours.”

“You are mine,” He growled, not allowing for a second of silence between that plea and his answer. Not allowing him a second of doubt. “You are all mine. As you’ve only ever been.”

He moaned and clenched around him. “I love you so much.”

“I know, baby.”

The pet name had Nicky’s mouth hungrily seeking out his.

“Think we can break this bed like we broke our house? Remember _that time_ in Malta?”

“I remember it all, Yusuf...” He spoke adoringly. “All the love you’ve given me. All the life you’ve given me.”

He dropped his head into the crook of his neck and started muttering to him in his old dialect of Arabic, urging them both to the edge of completion.

Nicky spoke too and it was like they were praying together again for the first time in centuries. They wasted their breath on confessions of their shared love and reminiscing on random snippets of their life. With brief words between them that were enough to say all and more. 

The first laugh. The first time finding the North star. The first time riding a horse together. The first kiss. The first swim in Mellieha bay. The first time making love. The first dance. The first song at a karaoke bar. The first pride parade.

So many firsts.

Never a last.

Nicky’s climax was heralded by a stifled cry. The clenching of his muscles wrung Joe’s orgasm out of him. His howl was something he’d have to apologize to Nile for in the morning.

Andy was used to it.

He slowed down their rhythm, but didn’t stop right away, letting them both ride it out.

Nicky’s back was arched, tight as a bow. He had his head thrown back on the pillow and he was gasping for air.

Joe licked up the column of his throat, sucked on his Adam’s apple and flicked his tongue under his chin.

As soon as he had a breath to spare, Nicky chuckled.

Joe lazily rolled his hips. His spent cock was becoming too sensitive but he resented the idea of pulling away. “Nnnn… Remember that time in Malta- wait, no, it was the Maldives… when I put a butt plug into you and I let you sleep for a little while with my come inside you? And then woke you up by replacing that plug with my cock, while you were in the middle of a nice dream?”

He released a laugh that stopped with a snort.

Joe loved it so much. “Mmmm… You came with the first thrust. Remember?”

“Yeah, Joe. I remember…”

Joe yelped when one of his nipples was pinched. “What?”

“I thought you were going to say something romantic, not something filthy.”

“Sorry, my ‘other brain’ is supplying me with words right now. Upstairs brain is out for the evening.”

“Isn’t romance spoken from the heart anyway?”

“Mmm, yeah… but last time I saw it, you had it.” He finally stilled and collapsed on top of him, nuzzling his nose into the damp hair.

“Ah. I’ll return it to you at my earliest convenience…” His voice had that sleepy drawl to it.

“Keep it. Just don’t lose it.”

“… I won’t.”

As much as he’d love falling asleep on top of Nicky, it was kind of filthy. With Nicky’s semen smeared between their stomachs and Joe’s trickling towards the sheets. He forced himself up on shaky legs and pulled his lover out of bed and into the shower with him. They washed each other reverently before returning to bed to sleep against each other like they always did.

Their bodies fit together so well, Joe knew they were made for each other.

In the morning, Nicky apologized for the both of them by making the women pancakes, a favorite breakfast of theirs.

The four of them spent another month in Malta.

Andy had become grounded on the island. With renewed strength, she started telling Nile her own story, taking her back in history much further than Joe had. Joe and Nicky would join them, listening to her epic tales even though they had heard it all before.

It was a time in Malta that, a hundred or a thousand years from now, they could simply reference as ‘ _that_ _time in Malta’_ and the other would know exactly what was meant.

They spent this time in Malta more free than they had ever been.

Dancing in the kitchen, where Nile and Andy rolled their eyes them.

Dancing in clubs, where nobody batted an eye at two men together.

Making love in bed and in the bath and one time on the couch. In the moment she walked in on them, Nile was not amused.

Horseback riding on the beach and through the hills.

Reading

Drawing.

One night, Andy told them about the weeks she’d spent on Comino with Quynh.

Nile was curled up in the lounge chair next to Andy's.

Joe lay sprawled out on the couch with Nicky half on top of him and half asleep. Joe was dozing off as well. Not because the story was boring, but because it was beautiful and he wanted to take it into his dreams with him and see Quynh’s face as vividly as he did when he used to have _those_ dreams of her, before they had met.

Andy must have thought the two men had fallen asleep. For she stopped her story. “I don’t understand why seeing Joe and Nicky like this only brought Booker more despair,” Andy whispered, as to not disturb them. “Even after centuries of seeing them together, it still fills me with happiness and only happiness. There have been days – no, decades even, when watching them was the only thing that would make me smile. They give me hope and strength.”

Nile was eloquent as ever. She’d have to work on that. She’d have her own epic story to tell one day. “Yeah. Same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title to this story could have been: Nicky has a lot of guilt about a lot of things (but Joe makes it all alright). Lol
> 
> So, I made The SpeechTM as part of Joe’s mission to prove to Nicky and to the world that their love is no lesser because it is a love between two men. Which is an important mission. I am so, SO mad, at how often (3 times) I have come across a comment on YT saying: “I stopped the movie 22 minutes in”. That was so specific, it caught my attention the first time. What happens exactly 22 minutes in? It’s the shot of Joe and Nicky cuddling in the train; beautifully and matter-of-factly revealing them to be a couple... Some people turn off the movie because two of the male bad-asses are gay, and they don't even have the sense to be ashamed of their own bigotry. 
> 
> I wish Netflix would do an entire series about Joe and Nicky, because it’s so important to keep showing people that this kind of love is true and something to be proud of. It’s not going to change the ignorant assholes in the world, but it’s going to help the people who are confronted by their hateful bullshit every day. 
> 
> Sorry, had to vent.
> 
> Anyway, question of the day: what did you think of the story? ;)


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